Protected
by Coal15
Summary: Post-monster Queliot fic. Quentin is a ball of anxiety over feelings. Then he's not. Then smut.
1. Protected

Forcing the Monster to let go of Eliot took months, and once it was done, Quentin found he couldn't get over the decades they'd spent together in Fillory falling continuously in love. True, actual memories of the other timeline were fuzzy at best, but that singular detail stood out, sun-bright and brick-solid. Real as all fuck.

Despite all the other important shit he needed to focus on (like figuring out how to dick over the Library good and hard), he stayed fixated on Eliot.

All Eliot, all the time.

Some random detail. His eyes, hands, humor, whatthefuckever. It was annoying. Also, waking up mired in the frustrated aftermath of vivid sex dreams every morning was starting to piss him off as well. Quentin knew he either had to make a move, or lose his mind.

 _I'll wait 'til he's more . . . recovered. But yeah. We have to deal with this. Anyhow,_ he told himself, _Eliot_ _has the same memories I do, right? So there's like zero chance he'll reject me, right? . . . Right? . . . I mean . . . right?!_ And 'round and 'round the question went, spinning in his head like a goddamn dreidel.

Day by day he watched Eliot figure out how to cope with his trauma. At first just enough to function, but eventually enough to truly recover himself. Wearing a bit of extra scar tissue, sure, but otherwise healed.

 _Okay, i_ _t's time,_ Quentin realized one day. Anxiety or not, he had to make a move.

There was just one little issue. A tiny fact that had plagued Quentin his entire life.

 _My come-on game is total shit_.

Yeah, he could _think_ of flirtatious comments, but when he actually tried to speak? It all came out stutters and sounds.

 _Why do I suck SO BAD at this?_ He wondered every time he tried. Even with the benefit of being nearly certain Eliot loved him back, just like in the other timeline, he could barely get through a conversation anymore without wanting to yank out his brain and yell at it for being a stupid, flailing waste of tissue.

His only hope was that Eliot wouldn't notice.

"Why are you such a weirdo lately?" Eliot asked one evening with a quiet chuckle that turned Quentin's insides into warm pudding.

 _He noticed. Fuck. And now I'm blushing. GROWN MEN DO NOT BLUSH!_

"Am not."

"Totally are." Eliot shot back, no hesitation. And if words could _smirk,_ his would. He rose from the cozy couch-nest he'd built himself in order to stare down at Quentin, who sat slouched in a faded green armchair trying to focus on a book. "Explain this weirdo vibe at once, or I will tickle you to the brink of death."

Feeling awkward and deeply unprepared Quentin cleared his throat and stood, tucking hair behind his ears as he struggled to think. "Um, Wh, I, you, th, uh-"

"Woooooooow. I mean, even for you this is impressive." Eliot's smile grew wider with each syllable.

 _How do you even have cute TEETH, you asshole?!_ Thought Quentin, inwardly pouting. _It's not fair!_

"C'mon," Eliot poked him in the side. "Tell! Tell! Tell!" (poke, poke, poke) "Telltelltelltelltell!"

 _Shit, there's no avoiding this._ "O-okay!" Quentin stammered. "Just quit poking me!" He licked his lips, guts thrumming with nervous energy (the only kind of energy he seemed to have anymore). _Reminder: you're terrible at flirting, do not try it. So then . . . how . . . to . . . say . . ._

"I meant while I'm alive, nerd." Eliot's voice was firm but affectionate, teetering just on the edge of concern.

 _Aw, fuck everything._ Quentin decided. _No thinking, just talk_ _._

"You're my favorite person, I think we should be together, and the problem lately? Or, um, why I'm so weird? It's, uh, so . . . yeah, basically anytime we make eye contact lately, I wanna fuck." _Great job, dumbass. Solid romance._ He had not intended to be nearly so blunt, but . . . well, the words were out there. No take-backs. _So I guess just keep talking?_ "Yeah," he nodded, frozen stalk-still from the neck down. "Like . . . um . . . a lot." _Breathe,_ he reminded himself. _Keep breathing._

Meanwhile, Eliot crossed his arms and pursed his lips, eyebrows rising just slightly. "Hm. I was just thinking how much my ego could use a good boost."

"The hell it could!" Quentin scoffed. He could tell his friend was delighted, and poised to go on flattering himself with characteristic flamboyance, but between his jangled nerves and the fact that Eliot was gliding subtly closer to him by the second _(sneaky twat),_ he made a spontaneous decision. Before the other man could get another word out, he grabbed him by the shirt collar, launched himself into tip-toe stance, and kissed him.

The response was enthused and immediate.

The trip upstairs involved a lot of less-than-sexy stumbling around, but eventually they made it to Eliot's room. From there they just had eighteen buttons, one belt, and two zippers to get through.

"Belts suck," Eliot kiss-mumbled against Quentin's mouth. "You should never wear belts again."

'No more belts,' is what Quentin meant to say, but it came out: "Nuhmhmhph." He didn't give a shit. Neither one of them was in any mind to give a shit.

He managed to squirm out of his boxers as Eliot steered them both toward the bed, and set to work getting Eliot's underwear the hell out of the way just as his legs made contact with the mattress. _Nice timing,_ he thought, pulling the snug boxer-briefs with him as he sat down.

 _Oh right. I forgot about this._

It felt like a million years since he'd last seen Eliot with an erection. About average in girth, but as for length? . . . Well, there was a lot to deal with.

 _Plan?_ He asked himself. Pleasing Eliot was the paramount goal, so skipping oral foreplay was absolutely not an option. Still, He figured him choking to death would be a big turn-off for both of them, so any serious deep-throat action was also off the table.

For once in his life, Quentin was unphased. _Plenty of other options_.

He opted for running his tongue slowly up and down Eliot's rigid flesh, base to tip, pausing occasionally to kiss or stroke. The decision won him unambiguous approval.

Every time Eliot sighed or whispered a compliment, Quentin felt entirely flawless. Proud. 'Nervous Quentin' vanished, replaced by a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

"Fuck!" Eliot cried out when Quentin's mouth sealed over the head of his cock and slid down, then back again. Then down. "Ooooooooh . . . . oh _fuck . . ."_

Long fingers threaded in his hair as soft sighs and breathy praise went on and on.

Quentin truly wasn't sure he'd ever felt so . . . _necessary._ So irreplaceable.

Determined, he took Eliot to the greatest depth possible, pushing several times beyond the point of his own comfort. _Worth it,_ he thought as slippery precum coated his lips. _So fucking worth it._

However, the ache in his jaw did eventually demand a change of scene. When that happened he withdrew and hefted himself to the center of the bed, followed closely by Eliot.

Quentin settled into the other man's lap in a sort of crouched straddle, muttering quiet syllables as Eliot's tongue wandered over his throat, warm and slow. When he reached down stroke his cock, Eliot stopped him.

"I got it," he whispered, taking ahold of Quentin himself.

Quentin rocked his hips in time to the delicate stroke. Easy, moderate pace.

The mood between them went on like that for several minutes. Quiet sounds and meandering touch.

The sharp left turn arrived when Eliot chose a spot at the base of Quentin's throat and latched on, teeth pressing in just hard enough to sting as his mouth sealed over the small patch of flesh.

"Ah!" Quentin gasped, hands clutching at any part of Eliot he could reach. He gripped and clawed while Eliot's mouth found place after place to leave a mark. Some light enough to be gone by morning, others clearly meant to linger for days. A territorial action.

 _Interesting._

Once satisfied with his work, Eliot kissed a quick path to Quentin's earlobe, where he nipped and licked for a few seconds before kissing an equally impatient trail to the other ear. "I wanna get you off," his voice rumbled in a cadence that could not have dripped more sex if it goddamn _tried._

Quentin intended to respond with something along the lines of 'hell yes,' but Eliot swallowed the reply an unwieldy kiss.

"Tell me how . . ."

Quentin closed his eyes to rally focus and truly consider the question, but he could _feel_ Eliot pining for an answer.

"Tell me how, Q . . ." the man whispered again, words punctuated by gentle lips tracing the contours of his face. ". . . anything you want . . . just tell me . . ."

Quentin knew based on previous conversations in the course of their friendship that, although there were a few exceptions, Eliot tended to attract men who either heavily preferred to top, or topped exclusively. Which, for a man who liked to mix things up-

"Fuck me."

Eliot leaned back, tensed and genuinely surprised. He searched Quentin's carefully face for any hint of doubt, but saw only unblinking confidence staring back at him. "Okay."

"Okay," Quentin echoed as he slipped easily out of Eliot's lap and turned around.

From their place in the middle of the bed he was just barely able to reach the nightstand and pull open the drawer. Bottle of lube and box of condoms within, as expected. Box unopened. He tossed the lube over his shoulder trusting Eliot to catch it, and set the box down next to them.

"Hmmmmmmm," Eliot purred, "have you ever heard of Valletta's Test?"

"Um . . . it sounds familiar I guess?" Quentin replied. _Where is he going with this? Why are we talking about spells right now?"_

"Here," Eliot wrapped an arm around him and pressed their bodies flush together, back-to-chest. "I learned this spell in Fillory. It feels strange as hell, but I promise it works."

With that warning in mind Quentin listened, curious, as Eliot spoke a phrase in some kind of wispy, almost melodic dialect.

He repeated the phrase three times, each time speaking faster. Then another phrase, also three times. And another. And another. Quentin felt his blood heat up from head to toe as the words lilted by, and every bone in his body seemed to vibrate.

It did feel strange. Even a little uncomfortable. But he trusted Eliot.

Upon the final iteration, the heat in his blood seemed to retreat from toes upward, collecting finally at the base of his brain. As soon as it arrived there, Quentin understood the purpose of Valletta's Test. To inspect every cell in a person's body looking for danger. Like say, a virus or disease. Both he and Eliot were sparkling clean.

"Well then," Quentin giggled, swatting away the box of condoms. It had struck him as odd to see the box of condoms _unopened_ in Eliot's room considering . . . well, he had _met_ Eliot.

"Three cheers for magic, right?" The man mused against Quentin's skin.

Quentin's pulse sped up as Eliot's mouth moved down his back, lower and lower. His patience held on by a tenuous thread until finally, fucking _finally,_ he heard the faint pop of a bottle cap opening. Moments later careful, slippery fingers pressed into him. First one, then two.

"I'll do this as long as you need," Eliot promised, placing wet, delicate kisses all over Quentin's hips, and thighs, and the rise of his ass. "As long as you need. Just let me know."

"Mmhm." It was as close to an articulate reply as Quentin could manage. He didn't have much experience with fingers curling and petting inside him, and every time Eliot found the right places to press it sent an intense jolt through his body. Soon a third finger joined the first two without much resistance.

Warm anticipation shuddered through Quentin's every muscle. _Almost . . ._ _almost, almost . . ._ "Yeah!" He cried out, finally. "Now!"

Without a word Eliot nudged Quentin's legs apart just enough to kneel between them, and took long, deep breaths to stay calm(ish) as he eased himself forward. "Oh my god," he breathed, slowly rocking his hips. _"Oh . . ._ _"_ All he wanted to do was let go and thrust like crazy, but the need to check in with Quentin one last time overruled that instinct. "You still good?" he asked softly.

Quentin lifted himself up and turned around halfway, craning his neck.

Eliot understood the move and leaned down enough for a kiss, holding tight to Quentin's midsection to help them both remain upright at their somewhat precarious angle.

"Yeah, still good."

Eliot pressed a long kiss to Quentin's temple, then thrust. Met with only a pleasured gasp he thrust again, with less caution.

Same response, only louder.

Now fully assured of Quentin's permission, the hedonist in Eliot took over, determined to hold on tight and _fuck._ Toss away every brain cell that wasn't focused on sex until the heat, and sound, and taste of Quentin became it's own brilliant universe.

From that point on both men chased down orgasm in free-fall, loud and wild, as the scent of arousal filled the air.

"Close," Quentin warbled finally, clutching blankets with one hand and tending to himself with the other at a vigorous pace. "I-I'm, I'm so, clo, _close!"_ He finished not long after the announcement with a halting series of pitchy, inarticulate sounds.

Eliot came not long after, and collapsed to the mattress on his side.

Quentin snuggled in close, still somewhat shivery in the aftermath of climax. He kept waiting for his body to calm the fuck down, but it didn't. Seemed incapable, in fact. The shiver got worse and worse until he was actually _shaking._ Gulping for air. _I'm afraid,_ he realized.

Without prompting, Eliot's arms and legs fell over him, encircling his body in what amounted to a human cocoon. It was only then that Quentin realized he'd been panting a quiet phrase over and over as he shook: "I can't lose you, I can't lose you, I can't _ever_ fucking lose you . . ."

"You won't," Eliot assured him, voice steady and calm as he brushed kisses over Quentin's forehead. "Just breathe deep. Nice and slow . . . slooooooow . . ."

While every feathery kiss was comforting, it was the solid, unyielding frame of Eliot's body that eventually pulled Quentin back to harbor. Tethered and safe .

 _So that's one way to kill a mood._ He thought with a cringe. "Sorry," he groaned. "That was super fucking weird."

"We've both been through heavy shit lately." Eliot shrugged. "Panic attack isn't the worst thing."

Quentin knew Eliot meant to be comforting, but the gentle words made something inside him deflate. _Jesus, he spent MONTHS possessed by a monster, and I'M the one freaking out? I must be the most pathetic, fumbling, weakass-_

"Stop it!" Eliot interrupted Quentin's thoughts, taking ahold of his face to lock in direct, almost _stern,_ eye contact. "You're headed into that rip-myself-to-shreds place you go to, I can tell. Knock it off!" His features softened as he traced a thumb slowly along Quentin's lower lip. "You're goddamn perfect, Q."

"Your definition of 'perfect' needs work." Quentin mumbled, diverting his gaze to the mattress.

"Pft!" Eliot tossed his head, sending dark curls tumbling into his eyes. "I am former royalty, I refuse to work on anything!"

Quentin gave a weak smile and pushed back Eliot's hair. "You just seem so put together. After everything . . ." he struggled for the right words. "I mean, how are you not more messed up?"

"I'm am plenty messed up, I promise," Eliot assured him. "But the thing about ruling a Kingdom? I had to get good at acting all steady and in charge while _inwardly_ losing my shit." He flopped onto his back with a giant grin. "Y'know, _quietly_ _._ It's been a useful skill."

"Hm." Quentin couldn't think of anything else to stay.

An easy silence fell over the room, and both men eventually drifted off to sleep.

Quentin woke up the next morning to see bright sunrise hues bleeding through the window, and his bed-mate somewhat awake. Awake enough to give him a lazy smile, at least.

"Morning," Eliot mumbled, and that was it. They stared out the window together and watched as orange, pinks and yellows faded to an overcast fall day.

"Should I divorce Fen?" Is the question Eliot chose to demolish their cozy quiet.

"Huh?" Quentin propped himself up on a pillow and frowned.

"I mean would you rather I wasn't married to Fen?"

Quentin blinked, his brain still thrown off-balance. "Do you _want_ to divorce Fen?"

"Well it's . . . it's not an overly _sexual_ marriage, obviously." he drew and released a long, contemplative breath. "But in other respects we're. . . I don't know, she's an astounding woman. So much stronger than she seems, seriously, you have no idea. And kind, and she can even pull of scary if she has to. This one time-"

"You don't wanna divorce Fen." Quentin giggled. "How cute!"

Eliot combed his fingers through Quentin's morning-mussed hair, pondering over their odd situation. "Well shit," he breathed. "I guess I _genuinely_ love my wife. Who the fuck saw that coming, right?"

"Right."

The two smiled, sharing what can only be described as a grossly affectionate gaze.

"Still, if it bothers you . . . "

"Not really." Quentin shrugged, nestling himself against Eliot's chest. As far as he was concerned, the matter was settled.

"You sure?" The other man persisted. "It would mean _we_ can't ever get married, you get that, right? I'm not the King of Fillory anymore, I don't get one of each."

"But we are both Fillorian citizens," Quentin reminded him. "And one of the first things our Great King Margo did when she got back to Fillory was ratify the Marital Autonomy Act."

"The what now?"

Quentin propped himself up again, grinning down at his apparent mate. "Everyone can have as few or as many spouses as they want, and it's all legal. All of it." He gave Eliot a little peck on the mouth. "You write your own contract. Everyone signs it. Done. We're good. Seriously."

A lively glint shone in Eliot's eyes. "How did I miss this beautiful news?"

"I got the bunny a month ago," Quentin explained while attempting to smooth down his tangled-to-shit hair. "You were newly post-monster. Still pretty catatonic."

"Ah." Eliot nodded.

Quentin, meanwhile, gave up on fussing with his hair in favor of returning to full snuggle-pose.

A move Eliot very much approved of. "Y'know what we need?" He asked after a long silence.

 _Waffles?_ Thought Quentin, suddenly aware that he was starving.

"A vacation."

Quentin closed his eyes and groaned. "I literally forgot that's a thing people do. Drop everything and go someplace cool just because. Totally forgot."

"Exactly." Eliot chirped. "We need one of those. We're obscenely overdue."

"Fuck yeah."

Eliot sighed and folded his arms behind his head. "So where should we go?"

"That needs to be a breakfast conversation, Eliot." declared Quentin, giving him a quick peck on the mouth before hopping out of bed. "Because I will lose my shit if I don't get waffles soon."

THE END


	2. Charming

Eliot sat up cross legged in bed, leaning against the headboard, hands behind his head as he watched Quentin scour the room for his clothes. He knew Quentin hadn't actually fallen _in love_ with him until sometime during their other life in Fillory, but he'd loved Quentin since the baffled boy asked him: _'hey, where am I?'_ and stumbled along behind him all clueless and sweet.

He'd accepted from the beginning Quentin would never love him back, at least not passionately, and that was fine by Eliot. _Obsessive love_ was never his thing anyway, so being best friends as they were was truly, honestly fine. Besides, in the course of their friendship those feelings had never stopped him from finding other people to love. Maybe not to quite the same depth but, y'know, _enough._

'Manage your expectations.' His lifelong motto. Worked like a charm.

 _But here we are,_ Eliot marveled, almost delirious. _We're together. He's with me. No, he THREW HIMSELF at me, actually. That shit happened!_

After years of invoking the discipline to wall off the part of himself that wanted Quentin so goddamn badly, just watching the man struggle with an uncooperative pantleg first thing in the morning felt . . . so stupid fucking perfect on a level he'd never even bothered to hope for.

 _Are my eyes welling up? They're welling up. If he notices I may have to kill myself._

"Hey, what're you doing?" He asked with a frown as Quentin started opening his dresser drawers and rooting around.

"Where do you keep the-nevermind, found one." He took a scarf out of the bottom drawer and wrapped it around his neck, covering one dark purple mark and a lighter one just below it.

"My question stands." Eliot pushed.

"I don't think an entire restaurant needs to see these," Quentin replied, pointing at his throat.

 _Wrong._

Eliot crawled to the foot of the bed and knelt there, reaching out for Quentin and pulling the man into a long, slow kiss. He untied the scarf as the kiss when on, and let it drop to the floor. "I disagree, " he breathed, lips ghosting against Quentin's as he spoke. "I think _everyone_ needs to see those."

Quentin sighed and let his tongue slide against Eliot's. "Yeah?"

"Mmhm."

Eliot could feel Quentin shifting in his arms, the restrained squirm of a man somewhat outside his comfort zone. "What, you've never walked around in public with a hickey on display?" He teased.

"Uh . . ."

He leaned back, the right corner of his mouth sliding upward as his eyes locked on Quentin's. _I dare you. Come on . . ._ the left side of his mouth began to follow the right. _I dare you, nerd-boy!_

"Fine," Quentin acquiesced, throwing his arms in the air. "No scarf. Everyone will know my boyfriend is a hoover-vac, but whatever." With that, he focused on buttoning his shirt.

Meanwhile, Eliot's mind spun with feelings of power and foolishness. Powerful because his shy little Quentin was willing to let a bunch of strangers see Eliot's work just to make him happy. And foolish because hearing Q refer to him as 'boyfriend' outta nowhere for the first time knocked him over. Literally. Ass-to-mattress.

 _What am I, sixteen?_

 _No,_ he reminded himself. _At sixteen you were a tragic, love-starved queer bending over for any closet-boy who so much as looked at you._

He thought back on that kid, high school Eliot, and felt deeply grateful to find he didn't have much in common with the boy. _Jesus,_ he recalled, _you even dropped to your knees for the straight jocks too drunk to care you weren't a girl._

. . . _hey, wait a second!_ It occurred to him suddenly that Q went down on him the previous night, but at no point had he reciprocated. _Where are my manners?_

"Manners? What?" Quentin stopped buttoning his shirt and frowned.

"Shit, I said that out loud." _Pay attention Eliot! Recover before it gets weird!_ "So, I should've gotten around to this the other night, but better late than never," he purred, sliding to the floor in front of Quentin. "Firstly, remember our talk about belts?" He asked, unbuckling said belt and slowly kissing his way down Quentin's abdomen, moving closer and closer to clothed, half-hard cock. "Second thing, really important: I will love you til the day I die. Again."

"Um . . . I know?"

"I just felt it should be said . . . " He unzipped Q's pants and slipped a hand inside.

Quentin responded with a long, ragged breath, gazing down at him with lust-blown eyes. "El. Honey. I will care _so much more_ about that after I come."

Eliot couldn't help but laugh. "Good _Christ,_ you're such a guy!"

"Would we be here if I wasn't?" Quentin shot back.

"Possible," Eliot replied, cool and breezy as he palmed Quentin's growing hardness. "Remember, I do have a wife."

"I feel like we're losing focus." He gave Eliot a firm pat on the head. "If you don't mind."

 _Oh yeah? Brace yourself, pushy._ Underwear down, and: Deep. Throat. No. Warning.

"FUCK!" Q yelled. "Ohmygodyoudidthatonpurpose!"

"Mmhm," Eliot mumbled around the fully hard cock in his mouth. He nudged Quentin's hips forward and back to broadcast that it was okay to thrust. Quentin picked up the hint, and took the lead. Eliot prided himself on giving excellent head regardless of pace. He switched to stroking occasionally when the need to breathe a little deeper arose, but otherwise kept at it. _I guess those drunk jocks served a purpose, after all. Blowjob boot camp._

It was a down-to-business event at a pace just shy of frantic, but Eliot didn't mind. _So the man is in a hurry,_ he thought, doing his best to swallow as Quentin came. _We had an active night, he needs his waffles asap._

"That was kinda rough." Quentin rasped as the last of orgasm rattled through him. "Sorry."

Eliot rose to his feet, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "I'm an adult. Rough is fine."

"Well then I'm sorry it was such a . . . quick 'n dirty thing." He nudged the floor with his toe like an embarrassed kid. "I should've probably-"

Eliot placed a finger over Quentin's mouth. "We really need to get you over this apology fetish." He said with a tiny smile.

"Sor-" Quentin stopped himself. "Yeah, I should work on that."

Eliot took Q's hand, threading their fingers together. "Good. But in the meantime: to breakfast!" He declared with nobility-appropriate flourish, pulling Quentin toward the door.

"El?"

"Hm?"

"You're naked," Q reminded him.

"Clothes!" Eliot corrected himself, turning back into the room. "Clothes, then breakfast!"

When they did exit the room a few minutes later, Kady popped out of the next door down.

"It's called a soundproofing charm, dickwads! I can think of three off the top of my head, and none of them would take much juice outta your magic rations! I had to use mine."

The men glanced at one another sheepishly.

"Sorry, Kady," Quentin mumbled.

She shrugged, seemingly already over it. "So anyway, are you and Eliot just hobby-fucking, or does this mean you're over that dull-as-shit obsession with Alice?"

Eliot immediately bit down on the inside of his cheeks to keep from laughing.

"Obsession's over," Quentin assured her. "I love Alice but we're both way different people now." he gave Eliot's hand a firm squeeze. "So yeah. Consider me over it."

"Wuhoo!" Kady whooped as though her team had just scored a point, and high fived the bedroom door. "I've heard you two were fucking _awful_ together, and I was not looking forward to sharing a house with that bullshit."

"I'm so glad my life choices suit your mood," Quentin monotoned. "We are going for breakfast now."

Eliot half-bowed in her general direction as they passed by. "Do have a lovely morning."

Fifteen minutes later he and Quentin walked into a small cafe called Savor. A popular spot for breakfast and brunch with high ceilings, exposed brick walls, and an eclectic mish-mash of restored tables and chairs. An easygoing place. Eliot liked it for their superior coffee, Quentin, obviously, for the waffles.

"Sit anywhere y'like, boys," chirped a cheerful twenty-something with bleached blonde hair and huge false eyelashes.

 _Those lashes must weigh three pounds each,_ thought Eliot as he and Quentin decided where to sit. _How does she even keep her eyes open?_ They chose a table against the wall because it had benches instead of chairs, which made it easier to cozy up.

And cozy up, they did.

"Pretty sure we're totally gross right now," Quentin muttered, leaning slack against Eliot, their hands entangled and heaped in his lap.

"We've only been together a day," Eliot replied, de-tangling one hand to drape an arm over Quentin's shoulders. "This is our time to be gross."

"Well, sixty years and one day," Quentin reminded him.

Eliot shook his head. "The other timeline doesn't count."

"The fuck do you mean, it doesn't count?" Quentin frowned. "The other timeline is when we fell in love."

' _It's when YOU fell in love,'_ is what Eliot would've said if not for his sense of pride. Quentin did not need to know he'd spent their entire friendship actively _choosing_ not to pine for him on a daily basis. Unwilling to face such an awkward confession, instead he went with:

"I don't count it 'cause we don't remember the details. It's the details that matter."

"Nah," Quentin shook his head. "I disagree. I think we remember enough to make it valid."

"Okay," Eliot nodded. "What did we do to celebrate anniversaries?" He leaned back and watched Quentin puzzle over the question.

"Huh . . . I'm not actually sure."

"How about our birthdays, or Teddy's birthdays?"

"I guess I don't remember what we did," Quentin admitted. "Not _specifically."_

"Not specifically. Right. Now, here's how much specifics matter: what were you doing last night before we went upstairs?"

"Sitting in a chair reading." Quentin answered.

A frisky glint shone in Eliot's eyes, alert ready to play. "And what did you do _after_ we went upstairs? Specifically."

Quentin's glance darted around to nearby occupied tables. "I went down on you," he said under his breath, barely audible, helplessly strung up somewhere between self-conscious and excited.

The reaction pleased Eliot more than a little. _I like this._ He began tracing delicate circles around the marks on Quentin's un-scarved neck. "Aaaaaaand after you went down on me?"

"I, uh . . ." a small, bashful smile spread across Quentin's face. "I asked you to fuck me," he whispered.

"You forgot the part where I did this," Eliot brushed his fingers down the line of Quentin's throat.

 _"Fuck,_ you're doing this on purpose too, huh?" Quentin asked, his voice shallow.

Eliot chuckled gleefully. "Oh, I absolutely am. How much do you hate me right now?"

"You're the fucking _worst."_

It turns out two waffles per plate can be consumed in under ten minutes.

"SOUNDPROOFING!" Kady yelled the reminder from somewhere in the house as they sprinted up the stairs.

Over the sound of footfalls and creaking floorboards, Eliot dimly heard Josh's voice saying, 'They're a real thing now? Right on!'

Eliot's pants were undone before the door even shut behind them, compliments of an impatient Quentin. "Waitwaitwait," Eliot insisted before his 'fuck everything' instinct had time to take over. "We need to cast the charm first. Kady will eat our balls if we don't, and I know the strongest one."

Quentin took a deep breath and a big step backward. "Please tell me it's a quick spell?"

"Thirty eight poppers, a forty five minute chant, meditate until we're floating, and I'm completely full of shit, it's super simple."

"Asshole!" Quentin grabbed him by the shirt and kneed him in the side. "Ass! Hole!

Eliot wrapped his arms around the other man and locked him in place. "Much as I am a big fan of 'aggressive Quentin,' let's get this spell knocked out. Then you can attack me all you'd like. We need one amethyst, four copper coins, and the prayer of Harpocrates, god of silence."

"Which poppers?" Quentin asked.

"Four, twenty seven, twelve, six-no, seventeen, and sixty," Eliot listed the handwork. "We repeat those until the whole amethyst is glowing, and it's done. Then we can fuck like rabbits!" He chirped, heading for the storage chest under the window while Quentin practiced the popper sequence.

"Please glow quickly, please glow quickly," Q quietly begged the amethyst as Eliot placed it on the dresser and arranged two coins on either side.

Two minutes and thirty three seconds later the entire crystal was indeed glowing. They tested the charm's strength by screaming for help at the top of their lungs.

When none of their housemates came charging the rescue Eliot figured it was safe, and allowed himself to be tackled to the mattress. Pliant and passive, he let Quentin take point on getting them both undressed, happily accepting every kiss he could get, soaking up all the affection radiating from Quentin's body.

"The other timeline isn't where we fell in love," he blurted out suddenly, surprising even himself. _What the FUCK?!_

"Excuse me?" Asked Quentin, propped up on his elbows on Eliot's chest.

Eliot cleared his throat and focused on fidgeting with Q's hair. "Um . . . I _really_ didn't plan to say that . . ." he knew from the concern etched on Quentin's face that he had no choice but to explain. "Right," he cleared his throat again, stalling. "So . . . remember the day we met?"

Quentin nodded.

Eliot took a one last deep breath before finally speaking the words. "Yeah . . . I was ready to kill and/or die for you by the end of that day."

A sweet, flattered look took over Quentin's face.

It made his stomach flip over.

 _Keep talking._ "But right away I was also _fully_ fucking certain we'd never be here," he cast his eyes to the bed. "Not . . . ever . . ."

He indulged in a long pause before getting to the meat. The raw heart of it. "So . . . I guess I don't focus on the other timeline you're so fond of because _I_ don't like the reminder that if it wasn't for a life-consuming puzzle, you'd still be obsessed with Alice. Probably." He mustered the balls to look Quentin in the eye again. "I'd rather stay in the present and just be glad are in love, regardless of when or how it happened."

"El . . ." Quentin seemed stuck for words and Eliot leapt at the chance to get the fun shit going again, but Quentin resisted. "Hold on, El."

Eliot squirmed, whining. _Pout-face. Break out the pout-face!_

"Just a second, okay? I need to make something really clear. Make sure you understand."

"Understand what?" Eliot sighed, wishing to god he'd kept his mouth shut.

"I'm really fucking glad we went on that quest. Because I if we hadn't I'd probably be miserable right now."

"Miserable?" Eliot frowned.

Quentin dropped his forehead to Eliot's chest and sighed. "You were there. Alice and I made each other really, really happy for all of five minutes. After that, all my trying to make us work out, _force us_ to work out . . . it was a damn torture. But the thing is, being in love and miserable was kind of a big theme in my life," he shrugged. "A habit. So it was. . . a fucked up kind of normal for me. Our life in that other timeline was like . . . emotional detox."

Eliot accepted a long, seeking kiss while his mind exploded and every little piece did cartwheels.

"And El," Quentin went on. "The healthier I got? The more I loved you. What does that tell you about us?"

Eliot couldn't think of a good enough verbal response. He coaxed Quentin on top of him as they went on kissing, at the same time allowing Quentin to guide a leg around his waist.

"I love you so much," Q whispered, slowly rocking himself against Eliot.

"Great," Eliot warbled in response, his eyes fluttering shut. "This is . . . so _fucking_ great . . ." His pulse raced as he felt his legs being hefted over Quentin's shoulders.

He clutched Quentin's arm, waiting, sighing quiet syllables as Q got him ready.

Eliot felt somehow delighted by the full fucking terror of needing Quentin so much. Unlike Q's panic attack the previous night, this terror struck him as a challenge. Something to stare down and fucking _own._

Which he did.

 _I am unbreakable!_ He thought as the the heat of Quentin moved inside him.

" _Ooooooooooh god,"_ he heard Q's shaky voice whine. "You were right. Details matter. So much."

"Yeah?" Eliot gasped the question as Quentin thrust.

"Mmhmm. I don't remember us ever doing this. I don't-I d-don't remem- _ah!"_ He gave up trying to talk and focused instead of maintaining an assertive thrust. "Ah! Ah! Ah! . . ."

Eliot echoed the chant, less and less quiet, while the bedframe lurched and groaned.

"Should I-"

"Don't ease off!" Eliot cried out, a sharp urgency in his voice, certain that's what Quentin was about to ask. "Keep going, _fuck! Please!_ Keep going!"

Quentin obliged, ardent and loud.

When he felt a hand fist in his hair and clutch tight, Eliot went hurtling into near-feral climax, finishing just as Quentin began to come.

 _My life is amazing,_ he thought as Q collapsed on top of him, body slack and sweat-sheened. _So worth all the godawful hell!_

"You're laying in the wet spot, honey," he breathed, trying to sweep hair out of his face. "I'm a bit sticky."

"Mmph," Quentin shrugged, clearly ambivalent. "If only someone would invent showers . . ."

After a long easygoing silence, Eliot giggled . "Christ, can you imagine how pissed Kady woulda been without that soundproofing charm?"

"We would both be dead," Q mumbled sleepily.

"So dead . . ."

Eliot was nearly asleep when Quentin tapped on his chest.

"Hey, El?" He whispered. "I just had a thought."

 _Now? Really?_

"So, I know our other timeline never _technically_ happened, but the cabin does exist, right? It's there?"

"Um . . ." _Where are you going with this?_ "It existed in the past, at least. Might be rotted down to foundations by now."

Quentin went on. "Do you think if we found it, y'know, the most important physical place connected to our other timeline, we might . . . like . . . remember stuff? Specific stuff?"

"Huh." Eliot mused. _Interesting thought._ "Maybe."

Quentin propped himself up on and elbow wearing a broad smile. "Then that's what we should do for vacation. Go find our cabin. I'm almost certain it'll help us out memory-wise."

Eliot made a half-hearted effort to smooth down Quentin's hair. _Disheveled is such a good look on you, Q . . ._

A hilarious notion suddenly struck him.

"What?" Quentin asked, eyebrow raised.

"I think you just wanna know if I ever banged your wife." said Eliot, gently stroking the other man's face. "Let's assume that's a 'yes-at-some-point,' shall we?"

Quentin grinned. "And probably a handsome woodsman or two, huh?"

"Or nine, or twelve-what?" He snarked in response to the _'oh really?'_ look on Quentin's face. "Sixty years is a long fucking time! And I don't get a any sense of super huge conflict in our family, so you couldn't possibly have cared."

"I might be vaguely curious if you banged my wife," Quentin shrugged, leaning down to nuzzle Eliot's throat. "But mostly I just wanna remember details. What was our first kiss like? What kinds of games did our kid play? Was he artsy? Athletic? And like you said, the birthdays and anniversaries, all that shit."

"Hmmmmmm," Eliot stroked Quentin's back, considering the many possibilities. "I don't know why, but I feel like you kissed me first. Which means you've thrown yourself at me in _two timelines_. _"_

"Which means you're _easy_ in two timelines!" Quentin laughed, moving in to snuggle against Eliot.

A week later they were marching through Fillory armed with a homemade memory spell, eager to find their cabin.

THE END


	3. Communication and Clarity

It turned out a memory retrieval spell capable of hopping timelines didn't exist, which meant they had to invent one. Not a small task. It involved cutting and pasting various elements of several spells together, then getting the order just right.

The two of them sat on the floor surrounded by piles and piles of books, research, and an embarrassment of empty takeout containers.

Eliot broke first. "Okay, new plan," he declared, leaping to his feet. "I'm pretty sure no one in any timeline understands the fine minutia of magic better than Alice! We summon her here, give her all our . . . whatever you'd call this fucking _disaster_ , and have her design the new spell for us!"

"I dunno," Quentin mumbled. "Seems rude."

"Oh, come on!" Eliot scoffed. "I doubt this even counts as Big Magic in her world!"

"Eeerrm . . ."

"She'll have it solved by noon, Quentin! Just a minor side project, and then she's right back to working on Operation: Dick Over The Library 'til The End Of Time!"

"It's not so much working the magic as it is that she's been, y'know, tits deep taking lead on that mission, and not paying attention to much else. I'm pretty sure she doesn't know about us yet." Quentin shrugged, staring at the floor. "Gonna be an awkward conversation."

"Aw," Eliot sat down and cradled Q's face in his hands. "Sweetheart, dear one, I'm going to tell you something that may come as a shock. Ready? Great. _All_ of your conversations were awkward. Trust me, I bore witness to several."

Quentin threw him a dirty look. "We were _not_ that bad!"

"This one time while you two were talking I saw three nearby books get so uncomfortable they tried to squirm away." Eliot informed him with a deeply somber expression.

Quentin spent a moment floundering for words, then gave up. He sent Alice a text, and it took her all of two minutes to build a portal to their apartment. She came through with an armload of books.

"You said a timeline jumping memory retrieval spell, right? Sounds exciting!" She glanced around the room as she spoke. "But this place is a disaster! Can we clean up a little? I work best without clutter."

"I'll get a trash bag," Quentin left the room, Alice trailing behind him to the kitchen. "Is trash bag fetching a two person job?" he asked.

Alice shifted her weight back and forth, looking every which way but at Quentin's eyes. "It's just with all the, the things, um, that are happening . . . we haven't, you and me, we haven't really had a conversation, not one about us, at least, and I feel like maybe-no, I do feel, I _do feel_ our relationship is . . . well, it's murky, and that should be addressed."

"Alice-"

"Please let me finish!" She insisted. "I also feel-or am starting to feel-more like my old self than I have in a long time. Like, I don't know, like I'm shedding an old skin or something, and I think it could mean, maybe at some point, um, I might be ready to try us ag-"

"I'm with Eliot!" Quentin shouted the news as fast as he could.

"Oh." Alice folded her arms in front of her, then changed her mind and crossed her arms, then changed her mind again and folded them in front of her. "That's very . . . congratulations." she nodded. "We should sweep. I'll get the broom."

"Cool."

Alice held out her hand and the broom propped against the fridge swooshed right over. "Really, congratulations." And with that, she turned and stalked out of the room.

"See?" Eliot whispered, stepping out of his hiding place around the corner. "Awkward."

Three hours later Alice handed them five sheets of paper. "It's simpler than it looks, I promise. This first part is complicated, but you'll only have to do it once. Now, how the memory charm works is the more you remember, the more you'll remember. Like, first you'll just see the _specific_ memory you asked for, hard stop. But then you'll start getting more and more context as the spell . . . gets used to your brains is the best way I can put it."

 _Amazing,_ thought Eliot. _Her face-sounds are so normal when they're not directed at *just Quentin.*_

"Okay, let me walk you through the whole thing."

"Oh!" said Quentin suddenly. "First, would you mind building us a portal to Fillory before you go? You're so much faster at it than . . . well, everyone."

"What am I, stupid?" asked Alice, emoting from the forehead. "Already done."

"Again, awkward," said Eliot under his breath.

Alice and Quentin both shot him matching 'fuck off' glares.

It didn't take the boys long to learn their spell, and they waved goodbye to Alice as she hopped through her portal home.

"That was super fun!" Said Eliot cheerfully.

Quentin flipped him off.

Upon arriving in Fillory, it took them hours to search out the old cabin. Their 'never-was' timeline took place so many decades in the past that the memory spell wasn't much help. The landmarks they'd used to find their way around in Past-Fillory had changed too much to be useful.

When they did find it, the cabin was barely standing, weathered by time and neglect. And the outline of the mosaic could barely be seen beneath dirt and grass.

Eliot made a mournful noise. "And it was such a cute little house!"

Quentin went about gathering twigs from all four compass points around the cabin, as per the spell. "Yeah, but I was always going to get the key to Margo, who was always going to get it to us, so the cabin didn't need to draw people in anymore after we both died."

"Still . . ."

They placed the twigs in a makeshift pit, added three drops of blood each, burned the twigs, gathered the ashes in a small bronze bowl, and scattered them around the property both inside the cabin and out.

After that it was just poppers five and twenty, and the memory they wanted back repeated over and over. They started with 'first kiss.'

The first detail that came through for Quentin was them sitting outside on a blanket, drinking wine in torchlight.

They both kept chanting: "First kiss, first kiss, first kiss," and didn't stop until the full mental image broke through clean. No fuzz.

"Called it," Eliot sing-songed. "You kissed me first!"

They stood hand in hand and stared at the spot where it happened.

Quentin remembered staring at Eliot in the torchlight. Before their quest for the key, an attraction to Eliot was just a feeling that flickered through him sometimes in a quiet, vague sort of way. But there, sharing a blanket and wine in half-darkness, that flicker went full pyrotechnic in a _huge way._ 'Fireworks around the world on New Years' huge. Bright, loud, and exhilarating.

It was was entirely uncharacteristic of him, but Quentin decided in that moment to kiss Eliot and did it without another thought. Then he sat back and waited for a reaction, weirdly calm considering what he'd just done. _He'll kiss me back. He will._

When Eliot did lean in everything about him was warm, and soft, and open.

They kissed easily, neither one pressing for more, for several minutes before Eliot's tongue swept over Q's lower lip. The fleeting contact excited Quentin more than any tiny kiss should excite a grown man. He tilted his body back, pulling Eliot along, eager to settle on the ground with El's weight on top of him.

Ready, in fact, to spend the whole night stripped bare and making love right there on the blanket. "This is nice," he whispered.

Eliot matched Q urge for urge, every kiss and every touch, in a happy haze. But the haze cleared when Quentin moved to undo his pants, and cold reality shone through. "Wait! Wait!" He insisted.

Quentin obliged and sat up. "What's wrong?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, but . . . we should stop before this goes any further."

"What? _Why?"_ Quentin whined, fiddling with Eliot's shirt collar until the other man took ahold of his wrists.

"It's not that I want to," El assured him gently. "It's just . . . changing our relationship now would add . . . a new layer. New complications. And we're both smart enough to know we can't afford that right now." He said with a frustrated grumble. "We need to focus on the quest."

"The quest." Quentin echoed, feeling defeated. "Not sex."

The memory ended there.

"Huh," real-time Eliot mused. "Fillory-me had discipline. Weird."

Quentin agreed. "So how long do you think we behaved ourselves?"

"I mean, we definitely caved in at some point." Eliot grinned.

"Wanna dig up that memory next?" asked Q.

"Yes, please!"

This time the spell lead them inside the cabin.

"We were over there." Eliot pointed to a long counter against the far wall with a rectangular hole carved out to accommodate a now missing water basin.

"Yeeeeeaaaaah," Quentin nodded. "And we were dressed in our Fillory clothes. Which I guess means we did manage to keep our hands off each other for a while?"

Eliot focused, brow furrowed, struggling to gain a sense of time lapse. "Around eleven months, I think."

"Wow," said Q. "We were _really_ fucking dedicated to that quest!" The details began to take shape in his mind. "I washed my hands in the basin, and when I turned around . . ."

. . . Eliot happened to be passing by a few steps away from the counter, stumbling over his own feet at just the right time to collide with Quentin.

They stared at one another in silence, neither man stepping out of the other's arms.

Finally, Quentin cleared his throat. "So this is . . . _interesting."_ One hand started sneaking up Eliot's back, fingers barely whispering against pale grey fabric.

"Uh-huh." Eliot gulped as his body began to subtly sway and rock against Quentin who responded without pause, arching into the rhythmic contact. ". . . Quentin, we still can't afford-."

"I know." Q cut him off. "Right, I know. It's just . . . god, I _really_ wanna fuck." His other hand moved down Eliot's chest, unstopped.

" _Shit,"_ Eliot breathed, the word catching in his throat as Quentin's hand slid between his legs, caressing with no hint of demurity. A steady, certain hand.

Meanwhile, El felt the opposite of steady. He knew talking was a bad idea, the words would just wobble out of him in a pathetic mess. So instead he set his jaw and struggled to avoid physical arousal.

Quentin didn't realize they'd been shuffling around the room until his back made contact with the counter. When that happened he immediately pulled El close, effectively pinning his body between the counter and Eliot. "Say you don't wanna fuck me." he dared, massaging the half-hardness beneath his hand. "Say you don't . . ."

"It doesn't matter what I want!" Eliot insisted. The words themselves were resolute, but delivery failed him. His voice quaked, weak and thin while Quentin brought him to full arousal. Discipline (the only thing holding him in check) started to drift away, leaving more and more room for libidinous instinct to take over.

Q hiked himself onto the counter and pulled Eliot between his legs.

 _Shit! Shit! Shit! Leave the cabin! Go for a walk! A swim in the river! Hit up a tavern! Anything!_

None of those things happened.

Instead Eliot's forehead fell to the crook of Quentin's neck, nuzzling and breathing in the earthy scent of his skin. He felt a leg fling around his midsection, and a hand take ahold of his his.

"Say it, El," Quentin kept whispering, stubborn and impatient. "Say you don't want to . . . "

 _Get control of this!_ Eliot yelled at himself, completely failing to resist when Quentin guided his hand to where it was most urgently needed. He failed again to resist when his fingers slipped beneath Q's waistband, and yet again when the weeping head of a hard cock bucked into his palm.

"God _damnit,_ Q!" Eliot hissed, chasing down Quentin's mouth.

Quentin responded to every kiss, every touch, thrilled beyond reason. _So what if he's a little pissed?_

Eventually the teasing became too much to tolerate. When that happened Quentin pushed Eliot away, stood up, spun around, and bent over the counter, panting heavily, his mouth inches from the work-worn surface.

Seconds passed by and nothing happened.

Seconds . . . seconds . . .

Nothing happened.

Finally Q looked over his shoulder, and he look on Eliot's face nearly broke him. Pure tortured lust. "Eliot . . . ?" He warbled. "Fucking Christ, El, we _need this!"_

And that was it.

Full mental power outage. Every part of Eliot that gave a shit about the quest went dark. He launched himself at Quentin, pulse racing, furiously kissing the man as he undid the drawstring of his pants and helped nudge Quentin's to the ground.

Back in real time Eliot wrapped his arms around Q, pressing a kiss to his temple and basking in their new/old memories. "It's funny," he mused. "In my fantasies, _I_ was always seduced _you_ first. But now you've jumped me in two timelines."

Quentin nested El's hands between his own, too preoccupied with still-surfacing memories of their previous life to manage a conversation. _You were right Eliot,_ he thought. _The details do matter._

He remembered Eliot summoning to the counter a jar of makeshift lube he'd formulated several months previous. ('in case the hot blacksmith ever gets within seducing distance.')

Then came the sound of Eliot's voice racing through Valletta's test. And Eliot's left hand atop his on the counter, holding it down firm. Eliot's breath on the back of his neck and shoulders. And finally the beautiful lurch, and groan, and sweat of a needy, half-angry fuck.

Every stick of furniture in the cabin was enchanted to accommodate the needs of anyone working on the mosaic, so afterward when they stumbled to Quentin's tiny cot, it was big enough to fit them both, with room to spare.

"I am so sorry I made us wait so long to do that," Eliot mumbled against Q's chest. "I was dumb as shit."

"Agreed," said Quentin, giving his bed-mate a playful shove. "Super stupid."

"Moronic . . ."

A long silence passed before Quentin realized a need to clarify something. "Um . . . Eliot, I need you to understand something. So we're on the same page."

"Okay." Eliot sat up cross legged and leaned against the wall. "Tell me about this page."

Q got right to the point. "I don't wanna just be friends who fuck sometimes. As far as I'm concerned, we're together. I love you." Eliot's head tilted to the side, and the look on his face was something Quentin couldn't identify. Something new. It made him nervous. "Do you feel differently?" he asked, anxiety tightening in his chest.

"No," Eliot shook his head and reached out to squeeze Quentin's hand. "I don't want a fuckbuddies situation, either. At all. I'm just wondering . . .where does that put you and Ariel?"

Quentin folded his arms behind his head and smiled. "Getting married in two months, same as before."

"But you . . . you are going to tell her about us?" Eliot frowned. "You'd kinda have to. So how do you see that conversation going?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Quentin. Sweetheart. I know it's baffling, but some women aren't thrilled to learn their almost-husband enjoys riding cock."

Quentin burst out laughing. He couldn't help it.

"I'm fucking serious, Q! Obviously I want you to tell her about us, I'm just saying be prepared for a really hard punch to the dick!"

"She's not gonna dick-punch me." Quentin assured him, still laughing. "She'll be cool."

"You're sure? asked Eliot, still dubious.

"Trust me," Q sat up and arranged himself next to Eliot. "The night we kissed? I told her about that night months ago. _And_ that I started it. _And_ that stopping was not my idea. Guess how she reacted?"

"I dunno, cartwheels?" Eliot guessed, feeling blind and baffled. "I'm having a hard time imagining anything that doesn't end in badly injured balls."

"Nope." Quentin chirped, threading his fingers with Eliot's. "She bet me a thousand gold coins we'd eventually, and I quote, 'bang like rabbits.'"

"So . . . no yelling at all?"

"Love is awesome," Quentin sighed, leaning into Eliot's open arms. "Ariel gets me. And us. She even-nah, never mind. I shouldn't say that."

Eliot raised a suspicious eyebrow in his direction. "You can't just say 'I shouldn't say that' out loud and stop talking, asshole! It's mean!"

"Eeeeerrrrr . . ." Quentin went back and forth in his mind a few times. "Fine. I could be wrong, though. I didn't ask her about it specifically, but . . . I got the distinct impression she'd be okay with including you in _our_ sex life."

"Oh yeah? She'd be 'okay' with it?" Eliot asked, a broad grin slowly twitching its way to life.

"Aw _fuck,_ I don't trust that face at all!"

The possibly dangerous grin grew larger.

"WHAT?!" Quentin yelled, nervous curiosity writhing in his gut.

"Not a big deal," Eliot shrugged. "Just that Ariel clearly wants to fuck me. You two have so much in common, it's adorable!"

"Shut up." Q gave him a solid shove.

"No way," Eliot replied, allowing his body to flop onto the mattress as he pulled Quentin down with him. "Your woman wants to get in my pants, and make me her sex monkey."

Quentin groaned. "Gods, this is just what your ego needed!"

Still Eliot refused to shut up. "I'll bet her favorite sex dreams feature the three of us getting busy!"

"I'm regretting this conversation so hard. Are you done yet?"

"Yes." Eliot wrapped his arms around Quentin with a happy sigh. "But just so we're clear, I am fully willing to put out with her involved."

"Seriously?" It was Quentin's turn to be dubious. "You'd be into that?"

Eliot made a mini-production of rolling his eyes. "Hi, I'm Eliot Waugh! Lovely to meet you!"

"Fuck off, I just meant . . . dude, we're gonna be _married._ You wouldn't feel at all weird about going to bed with _my wife?"_

"Not if you're in the room too." Eliot's tone broadcast an easy nonchalance. "I've always been a fan of multi-person sex, you know this. And I haven't done it in a looooooooong time." He squirmed around, prompting Quentin to move under the covers with him and cozy up. "Besides, as long as we're stuck on the most boring quest ever, we might as well have a spectacular sex life in the meantime."

"Spectacular?" Quentin asked, keenly aware of Eliot's leg creeping slowly between his. "For all you know Ariel is only _okay_ at sex."

"Mmmmmmmmmmmm," Eliot rumbled, dusting kisses along Q's clavicle and the curve of his throat. "People are built to learn." He moved to Q's earlobe, nipping gently. "And I'm always willing to teach."

"How selfless of you . . ." Quentin closed his eyes, loving the feel of El's mouth on his skin, not to mention the thigh rubbing between his legs. "Hey, didn't we just do this?"

"That was like half an hour ago, Q," Eliot purred. "Live in the now."

In real time, Eliot stood behind Quentin, arms wrapped around his shoulders. "I feel like that was a really, _really_ busy night for us."

"Mmhm." Quentin sighed. "Too bad it never technically happened. The timeline was undone, so Ariel lived and died decades ago without ever meeting us because we were never here."

"Unless the timeline didn't so much vanish as . . . branch off." Said Eliot, trying not to confuse himself.

"Huh?"

Eliot continued. "Like how there were thirty nine other versions us, and they're all still real, right? I mean we've used that Telsa-"

"Tesla."

"Whatever. The thingie to summon them, which means even though Jane Chatwin kept resetting the timeline, the other ones still exist in the multi-verse . . ." Eliot frowned. "Do I have that right? Is that right?"

"I'm gonna have a stroke in _this timeline_ if we keep thinking about it." Quentin tried to shake the puzzle out of his head. "Let's just be glad we have magic to help us remember, yeah?" He turned around to face Eliot, and the other man's arms slipped down around his waist.

"I am glad," Eliot agreed. "Very. So do you think it's time to summon up Teddy-related memories now? Or do we wanna stay on the porn channel a while longer?"

"Let's check in with our kid." said Quentin. As it turned out, the memory spell was super specific about chronology. When they asked it about Teddy, the first thing it revealed was an intimate evening between him, Eliot and Ariel. The night Teddy was conceived.

"Well then," Eliot mused as the memory unfurled in his mind. "I guess we really did turn into a full-on throuple!" He remembered that starting a family was something the three of them had discussed, and agreed to _only_ have sex as a threesome until Ariel conceived. That way whichever man _wasn't_ the biological father would still be included, involved and present right from the beginning.

"Wow," Quentin breathed, clear-as-day memories falling into place to form one hell of a fantastic picture. "I'm just gonna say it. 'Spectacular sex life' is an understatement!"

THE END


	4. Blessed

Real-time Eliot gazed all around the cabin as memories of that night washed over him.

He loved Ariel.

He loved seeing Q and Ariel in love.

And he loved knowing how much they both loved him as well.

Over the years, they'd evolved into an utterly devoted, unbreakable triad. Eventually it became too overwhelming for the three of them to handle, and they figured that meant it was time to create a new person to love.

Before each attempt, a serious conversation took place. A final chance for any one of them to change their minds and opt instead for a more typical arrangement.

Going that route would've meant building a second cabin nearby for Eliot while Quentin, Ariel, and the baby formed a new, tidy little family.

Ariel was not a fan of that option. "I love our life!" She said for what felt like the thousandth time. "It's worked so wonderfully for five years running, and I've always wanted a family of my own. _MY own,"_ she emphasized. "And without the three of us? Together? It wouldn't be _my_ family." She took ahold of Quentin and Eliot's arms and pulled them close.

"What would it be?" Eliot asked softly.

"A big gross lie?" Quentin guessed, resting his head on Ariel's shoulder.

Ariel caressed her husband's face and looked up at Eliot. "What he said."

"So you're still really, _really_ sure?" Eliot knew his queries were excessive, but he needed to know beyond any doubt whatsoever that they both truly wanted him fully rooted in the family. Not the sex buddy. Not the 'fun Uncle' or the babysitter. A full partner. Full parent. Possibly even on a genetic level.

"Ariel and I have discussed it for ages, El," Quentin assured him. "Like, _a lot._ And as far as we're concerned, the best version of all three of us is, well . . . all three of us. And my kid deserves the best version of me for a dad."

"And the best version of me for a mom," Ariel smiled.

Eliot adored her smile.

His gaze drifted between the two of them, his partners, genuine and committed, feeling complete amazement that _so much love_ could exist so quietly. Tucked away in a tiny cabin. And even more extraordinary was the fact that he was not only a part of this incredible picture, but a _necessary_ part.

"Then I guess that's it." He drew a deep breath, and let it out, slow and even. "We're officially ready." Ariel kissed him, Quentin kissed him, and their four joined hands rested in Ariel's lap for a long, quiet moment as they absorbed the weight and importance of their choice.

"Do you know the incantation?" Quentin asked him.

Eliot grinned. "I memorized it the day Ari started dropping baby hints.'"

"Last fall?" She asked, sounding impressed.

"What? N-no. The first hint I caught was three months ago."

"Yeah, same," said Quentin, a slight crease in his brow.

"Oooooh, boys are so dumb."

"Girls are too subtle!" Quentin argued.

Eliot gave him a pat on the head. "No, dearest. She's right. Boys are fucking dumb."

With that, Ariel placed both hands on her belly with Quentin covering her right hand and Eliot covering her left. It wasn't so much a spell as a blessing, but the recitation of it had been done for every generation of Ariel's family going back hundreds and hundreds of years, and neither fertility nor birth had ever been an issue.

All three of them spoke the words:

"Nos votum habent. Erunt fertiles, ut concipere et sanus infantem." _We have one wish. To be fertile, and to conceive a healthy baby._

Ariel alone declared:

"Inquam ego, et mater est." _Say I, the mother._

Then Eliot and Quentin together:

"Et ego et pater." _And I, the father._

Despite having gone to bed with Q and Ariel a million times, Eliot still felt nervous as he went to the floor, crouching at the foot of the bed between Ariel's legs while she and Quentin kissed.

 _Would you calm the fuck down?_ He scolded the butterflies in his stomach.

 _So what if we spent all week slathering the house in fertility spells and mixing up every 'yay babies' potion known to man, don't think about that right now! Focus on sex. The three of us go at it all the time, how is this different?_ He asked himself.

 _It isn't different! Not in the slightest! Get your shit together! Does anxiety affect sperm count? Did they cover that in health class? Jesus, if it does I hope Q isn't this nervous! WILL YOU JUST FUCKING FOCUS ON THE BEAUTIFUL, HORNY PEOPLE ON YOUR BED?!_

Eliot couldn't remember the last time he'd approached a sexual situation with 'the jitters.' Caution, yes. _Jitters?_ Hell no.

"You okay, El?" Quentin's concerned voice disrupted his inner identity crisis.

"Hm?" The question snapped him back to reality. "Yes! I'm fine," he assured them both, slipping his hands over Ariel's knees and beneath the frayed hem of her skirt. "I'm just . . . I'm really glad we're here. The three of us." His left hand massaged Ariel's thigh while the other dipped between her legs in search of heat. "I love the three of us . . . so much . . ."

Ariel leaned back in her husband's arms with a quiet sigh as Eliot's middle and index fingers made contact, brushing through her center.

"Me too," Quentin whispered, enthralled with the look on his Ari's face. He swept the hair away from her long, elegant neck and lavished the pale skin with affection.

Eliot went on massaging between Ari's legs until a sheen of arousal coated his fingers.

Then he rose up on his knees to meet Quentin in a slow, meandering kiss that ended when the man's focus turned to his wife's partially exposed breasts. Eliot also paid attention to the generous swell of soft flesh, nudging loose fabric out of his way to tease and lick a semi-alert nipple.

"Here," Ariel whispered, easily working the blouse off her shoulders.

Quentin stood up and got undressed, trusting Eliot to hold his wife in thrall.

"Mm!" Ariel made a pitchy noise as El's fingers pushed into her, and a delicate thumb circled her clit.

"Nice?" Quentin asked, combing his fingers through her hair.

Ari nodded, gently rocking her hips. "Yeah."

Out of the corner of his eye Eliot saw Q stroking himself, and decided to lend his mouth to that purpose, his fingers still searching and curling deep inside Ari's wet depth.

 _Multi tasking. A vital skill for the polyamorous._

Though his sexual preference did lean heavily toward men, Eliot couldn't fathom a life without variety. And he'd discovered back in the days of his marriage to Fen exactly how much pleasure the female body could offer when given proper attention. A delicious wealth of erotic treats for any lover with the will to find them.

 _And Ariel has been such a wonderful, patient teacher,_ he recalled while wrapping his mouth around Quentin's cock.

Fen, bless her dear kind heart, had arrived at their marriage bed with a near total lack ofreal sexual experience, and thus no idea what good oral action felt like, much less _great_ oral action.

So Eliot had arrived at Quentin and Ariel's bed with monumental confidence, and no clue that he ate pussy like an infant gumming on soft foodstuffs.

 _Un. Skilled._

For a while it bothered him that Margo had never offered notes, given their occasional threeways together, and being known as she was for bluntness and a lack of interest in other people's egos. _How could she not speak up?_ He wondered.

Finally, he decided the question didn't matter. That his dear friend probably just assumed women would never have more than a _very occasional_ supporting role in his sex life, so why bother giving him notes on the subject?

 _Also, she may have worried a *teeny bit* about my ego . . ._

Then along came Ariel. A woman with experience and so, so many helpful notes. Notes a'plenty. Obviously, between Eliot's own pride as a sexual partner and knowing how much Quentin enjoyed watching him and Ariel together, he'd been more than happy to sit his ass down and learn.

 _Eating Pussy, Advanced Class._ From the very first night of their involvement, Eliot made up his mind. _I will graduate with honors, goddamnit!_

By the time they started trying to conceive he'd proven himself an enthused and dedicated student, often mentally mapping out Ari's turn at oral pleasure before Quentin was even done with his mouth.

"Can't come yet!" Q hissed urgently, snapping Eliot out of his nostalgia.

 _Oh right, we're trying to make a baby._

Q sat down and guided his wife to lay back on the bed while Eliot lifted her legs and arranged them spread wide, knees in the air, feet perched on the edge of the mattress. He stroked, nuzzled, and kissed his way slowly, _very slowly,_ from her upraised knees . . . to outer thighs . . . to inner thighs . . . finally arriving at her clit.

That small bundle of nerves so crucial to the female orgasm. He licked the small button of flesh as agile fingers plunged deep into her open, inviting core.

Quentin's mouth wandered the contours of her breasts, tongue often stopping to lap and flick at lust-hard nipples. He held his wife while she writhed, back arched, moaning beneath Eliot's well trained attentions.

"God, Eliot," he whispered softly, running his fingers through the man's hair. "You are so fucking good at this."

"We love you so much," Ari gasped, an arm slung over her forehead as if in a faint, "we love you so much! _Ah! AH!_ Mmmmmmmm, we love you . . . "

He responded to the praise by removing his fingers from their task in order to fully devour every inch of her arousal-soaked sex, occasionally stroking her clit with his thumb.

He also listened with great interest as she and Quentin kissed passionately, whispering soft sentiments to one another, and to him. The sound made his cock ache, but it did not distract him. He remained steadfastly focused on licking and stroking between Ari's legs, responding without pause to every physical cue or verbal request.

 _Tongue only . . . fingers only . . . both . . . switch . . . . slower . . . faster . . ._ whatever she needed to find the height climax, he meant to provide.

Eliot kept working, thrilled with the result when the rippled, soft flesh surrounding his fingers began to pulse and shiver, seeking friction.

From there it was a matter of drawing out the experience as long as possible, so he flicked his tongue over her clit again and again, curling and scissoring slippery fingers at an athletic pace.

Loud praise and sharp cries filled the room, a duet of Ari and Quentin's voices.

 _That has got to be the greatest sound in the world,_ he thought, limitless love and pride thrumming through his every cell in his body.

At what he judged to be the appropriate time, El leaned back, fingers still tending to Ariel's pleasure, and looked at Quentin. "You ready?" He asked, breathless.

"You kidding?"

Quentin sat up while Ariel slung one leg across his, hefting herself into a straddle. The pair slid toward the center of the bed so Eliot had room situate himself behind Ari.

He studied Quentin's face with rapt attention as his wife lowered herself onto him, taking charge of her own pleasure and riding out the rest of orgasm on his cock while he and Eliot stroked her clit in turns.

El also took every opportunity to kiss Quentin with everything he had, loving the way Q _inhaled_ his mouth, drinking in the assertive flavor of his wife.

He could tell Q was getting close when his breathing went ragged and grabbed ahold of Ariel's hips, speeding her pace. El chose to lean back and watch the scene play out, stroking himself in time to their frenetic rhythm until orgasm loomed a little too close, then he slowed down.

He moved behind Quentin only moments before the man came, nuzzling his throat and shoulders just as he'd done for Ari, as climax rattled through their bodies, reached its pinnacle and, and gradually fell.

Afterwards, Q went slack against Eliot's chest, fully spent, angling his body so he wouldn't block Ariel from pulling El into a deep and lively kiss.

"Give me a few minutes," she whispered against his lips.

"Take all the time you need," Eliot smiled. "I'm in no rush." And with that they went on kissing.

Quentin watched, with just enough energy left to palm his wife's now-soaked pussy and coax her toward another peak. Once Ariel was full-on _bucking_ into his hand he withdrew, laying on his side against the wall, still watching as Eliot flung her body to the mattress and buried himself in one fluid move, thrusting with only the barest hint of restraint.

He knew how much his wife enjoyed being truly, deeply, _skillfully_ fucked, and for a man with only moderate attraction to women, Eliot's A-game was always one hell of a show. It was almost enough to get Quentin hard again. _Almost._

"You know," mused Real Time Eliot, "if Fen has any interest in fucking you, I'll bet we could be that awesome again. With some training, obviously. I'm sure Fen has her own list of likes and dislikes, and I doubt I know them all."

"How do you know I'll wanna fuck Fen?" Quentin asked. "We haven't really spent much time together."

Eliot cast an snark-ridden side-eye his way. "Because you're a man who likes vagina and she has one."

Quentin's jaw dropped. "Wow. I have never felt so objectified!"

"Fun, right?" El said with a wink.

"I will agree to _hanging out_ with Fen," said Quentin slowly, as if Eliot wouldn't absorb the words if he spoke too fast. "And we'll see where it goes from there."

"Ugh. Fine," Eliot scoffed. "Waste our precious time for appearance's sake, whatever." His arms crossed, and right hip swung out. His traditional 'I'm right and you're a dummy' pose.

"I will waste time," Quentin assured him with a nod.

"Great."

"I'll waste a ton of time. Maybe years."

"Good for you."

Q smiled. "Wanna take a break from memory lane? Have a snack or something?"

A few minutes later they were outside sitting on a blanket where the mosaic used to be. Being the spectacular snob that he was, Eliot had brought bottle of wine from a year before he was born along with the usual roadtrip munchies.

Alice was right about memories eventually coming back on their own. As Quentin and Eliot sat sipping their wildly overpriced alcohol, Quentin remembered something fantastic.

"We got married!" He exclaimed.

Eliot tilted his head, confused. "Yeah . . . we kinda knew that."

"No, I mean the _three_ of us. A few years after Teddy was born."

"It couldn't have been legally recognized, though. Before Margo passed the-"

"Yeah, no, I know it wasn't," Quentin persisted. "But still, we had the ceremony, remember? Invited all our friends, Hobbs the baker made us that incredible cake, Lady Wicklemire donated lilacs because you were super into lilacs at the time. Oh! And the hot blacksmith finally blew you because Ari already had her hair and makeup done, and I was busy trying to wrestle Teddy into a suit? Remember?"

"Oooooooh yeeeeeaaaaaah," said Eliot after a few moments of thought. "I do remember. And by the way, Hot Blacksmith's cocksucking game was only _okay."_ He took another small sip of wine as more memories unfolded in his mind. Like how toddler Teddy kept stripping off his clothes and running around naked. "Good _Christ_ our kid hatedsuits!"

"Until he discovered girls," Quentin giggled, recalling his shaggy pre-teen's sudden interest in grooming.

"As I recall, he turned into quite the natty dresser." Eliot swished his wine around in the glass as he spoke. "I like to think it was my influence."

"Mmhm . . ." Quentin's shoulders fell as another realization struck him. "I am so glad we did that. Had the ceremony."

It struck Eliot, too. "She only lived two more years."

Q nodded, a dull ache in his chest. "But . . . at least we had those two years of being . . . maybe not _legal,_ but an _official family_ as far as the village was concerned." He frowned, "If we hadn't done that, I don't know . . . I think her dying would've been so much harder for me to deal with."

"Same here," Eliot agreed, understanding for the first time the appeal of an actual marriage (for reasons other than political maneuvering). "We . . . had the time we had, and . . . you and I got to grow old together . . . but that was never guaranteed to us . . . and . . . and it's not guaranteed in this timeline, either, it never will be, and our lives are dangerous, and Quentin stand up right now!" He insisted, the words spilling out in a frantic rush.

Quentin leapt to his feet ready to run, assuming Eliot had seen or sensed some kind of danger.

But Eliot didn't take off running, or even stand up. He set down his wine glass, rose to one knee, and took Quentin's hands in his. "Okay," he rasped, clearing his throat, heart thundering in his chest. "Okay, so-"

"El, what the fuck?"

"Just shut up and let me do this, okay?!" _Where was I? How do I do this? What are words?_ "Okay. So um . . . yeah. The last time I knelt in front of you like this, you . . . put a crown on my head, and it was . . . I mean, I stood up and my whole life was different . . . You changed my world, Q. You've changed it several times, actually. And . . . and I want you to change it again. Marry me." He didn't phrase it as a question, because as far as he was concerned there was no question.

The look Quentin's face was one of absolute shock. "We've been together one week!"

"Sixty years and one week," Eliot corrected him. "So: _pretty please,_ fucking marry me!"

"Okay!" shouted Quentin, happy and dizzy and baffled. Then nearly crushed to death when Eliot grabbed him up in a tight hug. Q was just about to mention his growing need for air when Eliot suddenly dropped him.

"Whoa!" The taller man exclaimed, pointing at the cabin. The shiny, freshly painted, mint-condition cabin. "What the shit is going on with _that?"_

Quentin pondered the question, smiling when the obvious answer dawned on him. "Oh my god. El . . . the cabin wants us to live here."

"Ah! Of course! Well then . . ." He took Quentin's hand and walked toward the wide open door of their new/old home with a joyful bounce in his step . "Wanna start nesting?"

Quentin giggled, thrilled to see Eliot so fantastically giddy. "Yeah. Let's nest."

THE END


	5. When You Assume

Quentin and Eliot spent a few days packing, trying to decide how much stuff should go with them to Fillory.

"We should leave some stuff here, right?" Asked Q. "I mean, we're not planning to totally abandon New York, are we?"

"God no," said Eliot, carefully folding and stacking his shirts on the bed. "It's impossible to find decent sushi in Fillory. Which is weird considering the stupid abundance of fish."

"Now that you mention food, I'm hungry." Said Quentin. "Wanna raid the kitchen with me?"

The two went downstairs questing for some variety of sustenance. Namely, anything easy. In an unlikely turn of events, Penny, Kady, Julia, and Alice were all in the kitchen, gathered around the island, snacking on oranges and grapes.

"Why are we all here?" Asked Eliot. "Are there plans afoot?"

"Nothing we need your help on," Julia assured them with a warm smile. "Keep enjoying your vacation."

"Actually," said Eliot "since you're all here . . . minus Josh, it's not just a vacation anymore."

"Our cabin fixed itself up, and we're moving in!" Quentin announced with joyful flourish.

Alice frowned. "That's big magic. How does your cabin have so much magic?"

"How is _that_ your take-away?" Asked Eliot.

"Good for you guys," said Kady, popping a slice of orange in her mouth. "But you will come back here if we need you, right?"

"Obviously," "Of course," the men replied in tandem.

"And we are going to visit the city off and on," Eliot assured them. He turned to Q with a broad smile. "Wanna tell them the rest?"

Quentin smiled back, feeling like the human embodiment of every cliche about love _ever._ "Maybe," he chewed the corner of his lower lip. " . . . Unless you wanna do it."

"Aaaaawwww," Penny cooed. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

Eliot tossed a grape in the man's general direction. "Funny."

"It is kind of on that scale, though," said Quentin, "as far as life choices go." He glanced at Eliot just in case he did want to be the one to say it. "Me? Y'sure? Okay," he faced the group and announced, "we're engaged!"

"To be _married?!"_ Alice yelped.

"That is an _awful_ idea!" Said Penny.

Eliot wrapped his arms around Q in a defensive pose. "Hey! I thought you liked us together!"

"I do, you're way less annoying as a couple. Especially _you,"_ he nodded toward Quentin.

"Thanks, other-Penny. Hey, do you think there's a timeline where you're _not_ a dick to me?"

"Anything's possible," Penny shrugged. "Back on topic: you've been together for what, like two weeks?"

"SIXTY YEARS AND TWO WEEKS!" They both shouted.

"Hm. Okay then." Penny picked up the grape Eliot threw at him and ate it. "Judgement withdrawn."

"Oh thank god, he approves," Quentin deadpanned.

"Hold on," said Alice, raising her hand like a student in class. "How much of that life do you actually remember?" She asked.

"The spell gave us all the important stuff," Quentin replied. "Our wedding day, anniversaries, the day Teddy was born, when he learned to walk-"

"Even the time my peach cobbler took first prize at the village fair!" Said Eliot, still proud of the never-technically-happened accomplishment.

"Yeah," said Quentin, beaming as he took Eliot's hand. "His zucchini bread would've won, too, if Minka Moorland wasn't _literally_ a cheating witch."

"Ugh," El rolled his eyes. "Gods, that spiteful woman! I rejected her idiot dad on the grounds of him being a thousand years old-and an idiot-and she stayed pissed at me forever."

"Okay, great," said Alice, still frowning. "But birthdays and babies and winning prizes, those are all happy memories. Did you ask the spell for any _unhappy_ ones?"

"Unhap-I-wh-" Quentin looked at his ex-girlfriend, baffled. "Why would we wanna remember the bad shit if we don't have to?"

"Because," Penny said, taking over for Alice. "If you've never had a fight-or don't remember any fights-you shouldn't be getting married."

Eliot and Quentin floundered for a decent counter argument, but couldn't think of anything stronger than 'but we're in love.'

That is, until Quentin had what he thought was a good thought. "We know we didn't break up," he said. "So obviously our relationship does work." He stepped closer to Eliot, looping an arm through his "Really well."

Penny blinked at them as if they were the dumbest creatures alive. "Sure. It works great. In a cabin where you didn't have rent, or bills, or bosses, and there was an unlimited supply of magic. And we all know magic can fix a lotta little shit; y'know like home repairs, insomnia, fussy babies-"

"Okay we get it!" Eliot cut him off. "Thanks so much for pissing on our party!"

"Sorry," Alice muttered, tucking hair behind her ears as she moved closer to Quentin. "It's not that we don't want to support you, Q. Completely the opposite."

"You really should give yourselves the best chance at making it," Julia piped up, "not jump into anything too soon."

The pair discussed it over grilled cheese sandwiches and some leftover chicken, and decided (begrudgingly) that their friends were right.

"I still think getting married is _totally_ the right call," Eliot promised. "But how many arguments do you think we need to remember? Or what kinds of arguments?"

In the end they decided to ask the memory spell for their first fight, their biggest fight, a fight or two over parenting, and end on their dumbest fight just for laughs. They finished packing and left for Fillory that evening via the new portal that went straight from their room to the cabin.

After unpacking boxes of mostly dishes and clothes, Quentin and Eliot exchanged a nervous glance.

"Do we _really_ wanna see this shit?" Quentin whined. "Couldn't we just go back and lie to everyone so they get off our asses?"

"I wish we could," Eliot sighed. "But you are hands down the worst fucking liar in the universe, so there's that." Quentin shot him an annoyed look. "And also, just so we're clear, I do haaaaaaate saying this, but . . . getting married without a few fights under our belt is a bad idea."

Quentin groaned. "Fine. But after we bring back every little detail of all our worst shit, _then_ we can officially count the sixty years as valid and get married, right?

"Absolutely," Eliot nodded. "If you wanna go to the courthouse as soon as we get back to New York? I'm in."

They decided to start things off with their first fight, performed the memory spell, and waited.

Quentin recalled trudging home after checking the traps. Two raccoon-ish looking creatures unique to Fillory. No snow had fallen yet, but the grass was crunchy underfoot so he knew it wouldn't be long. Best to stock up on magically preserved protein before the outdoors was a miserable bitch of an experience. Next he remembered walking through the door to witness an incredible shock.

There was flour all over the counter and dining table, and the woman he planned to marry in exactly two weeks sat straddling his boyfriend in a chair, furiously making out. The two separated when they saw him, flushed and a tad breathless.

"Sorry about the mess," Ariel giggled casually, remaining in Eliot's lap as she shook flour out of her hair.

"She started it!" El" insisted, flicking his flour covered fingers in Ari's direction. "Iwas totally committed to baking a birthday cake, but then _she_ declared war!"

Quentin fumed. _They think this is funny?!_ "You two?!" He barked. "How the fuck long has this been going on?"

"Going on?" Ariel frowned. "We weren't sneaking around, Q, this is our _thing,_ " she indicated the space between all three of them. "We do this."

"No, WE do this!" Quentin likewise indicated the space between the three of them.

"Oh," Ariel said softly, sliding from Eliot's lap to an empty (and flour messed) chair. "I didn't realize you thought . . . I'm sorry."

"What?" Eliot yelped. "Don't apologize to him, we _nothing_ wrong!"

"SERIOUSLY?" Q shouted, hardly believing the bullshit hitting his ears. "As far as I knew you two only fucked if I was in the room, and neither one of you bothered to tell me otherwise? Like I wasn't entitled to that information?!"

Eliot stood up, glaring at Quentin. "Okay asshole, just to get this clear, outside of the threesome action, you and I have sex one on one, yes? And you and Ariel have sex one on one, too? Yes! So why _the hell_ wouldn't we take it for granted that we could do the same?" He pointed to himself and Ariel.

"I assumed it was a non-issue!" said Quentin, tossing the two dead animals on the kitchen counter.

"Again," Eliot growled. "WHY?"

Q threw his hands in the air, exasperated. "Oh I don't know, maybe because I've never once seen you show sexual interest in a woman _without_ a guy involved!"

"I was MARRIED TO FEN!" El bellowed. "AND WE SOMETIMES FUCKED! YOU KNEW THIS!"

At that point Ariel stood up. "Okay, I'm getting the sense this argument is _way more_ about the two of you than me, so I'm just . . . going to . . ." she slunk toward the door and flung a thick hooded cloak over her shoulders as she spoke, "I am going to my sister's house while you two sort this out. Just send me a bunny once it's settled." With that she slipped out, discomfort clinging to every inch of her body.

It took a beat, but the angry men picked up their argument right where they'd left off.

"You were _required_ tomarry Fen," Quentin reminded him. "It was part of your job description! So fuck me for assuming you only slept with her 'cause otherwise she would've had a totally sexless life!"

Eliot shook his head as if a gnat had just flown into his eyeball. "You seriously thought I stuck my dick in a woman I had _zero_ interest in out of _politeness?"_

"Kinda, yeah!" Quentin huffed. "And guess what? IT WAS A REASONABLE FUCKING ASSUMPTION!"

"Fine!" Eliot fired back, pissed off and unwilling to pivot away from that anger. "Maybe the first few times I just didn't wanna be rude, or for her knife-wielding dad to kill me on behalf of a sexually frustrated daughter, but then . . ." he trailed off, unsure how to properly describe the dynamic between himself and Fen.

"What?" Quentin interrupted his thought process. "You fell IN LOVE with her? Like _PASSIONATELY?"_

"I DID LOVE HER!" Eliot shouted. "AND YES, _SOMETIMES_ , THERE WAS A PASSIONATE ASPECT TO THAT, SO BACK THE HELL OFF ABOUT ME AND ARI!"

Now it was Quentin's turn to shake his head in confusion. "You mean full-on, actual _attraction?_ To Fen? That really happened?"

Eliot heaved a deep, frustrated sigh and cast his gaze around the room, uncertain what to focus on. "Not often. But sometimes, yes, I slept with her without another man in the room just 'cause I wanted to."

Q's eyes fixated on the chair recently occupied by his boyfriend and almost-wife. "Just didn't know that is all," he shrugged, seething quiet rage. "And you could've maybe made it a little bit clearer. Y'know, as long as you're so concerned with _politeness."_

"MADE WHAT CLEARER, QUENTIN?" Eliot yanked the chair toward him and slammed it to the ground hard enough to splinter one of its legs. "NEITHER ONE OF US LIED TO YOU ABOUT A GODDAMN THING!" He closed his eyes and held up his hands, drawing a deep, slow breath. "Okay . . . let's take a moment here. I'm pretty sure this all boils down to you not knowing much about how poly relationships work."

"I had a few threeways before this relationship, shithead!" Quentin rolled his eyes. "You were there for one of them!"

"A hookup isn't the same thing as a _relationship_ ," said Eliot, his voice sober, hands pressed together prayerfully and pointing in Quentin's general direction. "So I think we need to take a minute, and I can walk you through-"

"Wow, your tone is _really_ pissing me off!" Q interrupted.

And just like that, Eliot's temper raced back toward boiling point. "Excuse me?" He asked, struggling to stay calm. "My _tone?"_

"You're talking down to me, El."

"I am n-"

"You are!" Q cut him off again, fixing the man with a frostbitten glare. "And yeah, whatever, I realize you've had more _experience_ than me. But Jesus! It sounds like you're talking to an eight year old right now, and I don't think I should be treated like a clueless idiot _child_ just because _I_ HAVEN'T FUCKED A MILLION STRANGERS!"

Eliot stumbled back a few steps, suddenly adrift in shock.

Quentin's posture slumped with immediate regret. "I'm . . I shouldn't have-"

"But you did!" Eliot cut him off, each word spitting bile-strong bitterness. "It's nice to know you think I'm a whore!" His voice quivered in wounded disappointment.

"I don't. I don't think that, El."

Quentin stepped toward him, arms outreached, but Eliot was in no mood for remorseful gestures. He spun on his heels, got to the door in six quick strides, and snatched a coat and scarf off their hook.

"Eliot, please," Q barely breathed the words.

"I. Am. Going. For a fucking _walk!"_ Said Eliot, each word stilted as he wrapped the scarf around his neck. "I'm too pissed for this conversation right now!" He swung open the door and tossed one last spiteful comment over his shoulder on the way out. "Who knows, maybe I'll meet a friendly _stranger_ along the way!"

The door slammed shut.

Suddenly deprived of both his partners, Quentin sat down at the table and cried, head buried in his hands, genuinely terrified that he might've just set fire to the best thing in his life. _How very on-brand for me!_ He thought, wallowing in result of his own hubris. _How totally, perfectly Quentin Coldwater!_

Meanwhile, it took Eliot a good ten minutes to calm down enough for rational thought. Then another twenty to sort through each point of conflict, assigning himself guilt wherever necessary. Once he'd worked up enough balls (and humility) to apologize, he made the walk home. Slowly.

El entered the cabin ready to eat crow, but Quentin beat him to it, leaping from his chair before Eliot even had one foot in the door.

"I super overreacted!" He said, though he did remain by the table, still cautious of El's emotional state. "You were right, I should've assumed you and Ariel-"

"We never set down clear rules, Q" Eliot said with a contrite shrug. "And that's on all of us. Still, I'm sorry I tried to . . . I dunno, 'slut'splain' polyamory to you the way I did." He took a deep breath and continued. "It was _. . ._ rude and condescending."

"But clearlyI need the information!" Quentin insisted. "I don't have experience with this shit, it's just a simple fact, and I don't know why I got _that fucking upset_ with you trying to explain!"

"Because we were already fighting, that's why." Eliot took a tiny step toward Q, hoping he would do the same. "People get shitty in fights."

"Oh yeah?" Quentin raised a curious eyebrow.

Eliot crossed his arms with a self deprecating huff. "Plus, I'm told that _sometimes_ I can be kind of a bitch."

Quentin grinned, grateful for the hint of levity as he took a step toward Eliot. "Well, I'm told I _sometimes_ over-personalize shit."

"No!" The other man gasped.

Q finally moved within touching distance and ran his hands down Eliot's frame, resting them at his waist. "I'm also sorry about the 'million strangers' comment. That was wayover the line."

"It was pretty hurtful," El agreed, locking his arms around Quentin. "But in all honesty, there have been several intervals in my life when 'gleeful slut' would not have been an unfair description."

"So what though, right?" Said Quentin. "I love that you've always lived however the fuck you want and not apologized for it. Besides, you're smart, so it's not like you'd ever _endanger_ any _-_ "

"Ha!" Eliot cut him off. "Oh boy. I guess as long as we're being uncomfortably honest? Yeah, teenage me actually did make an _alarming_ number of poor choices. But that shit came to a screeching halt when I was seventeen."

"What happened at seventeen?" Quentin frowned.

Eliot sighed and opted for a whimsical tone. "Ooooooooh, you know the old story. The thirty seven year old married guy you've hooked up with off and on while also sleeping with several other partners calls up and tells you he's positive, so you have to sneak out of your gossipy, idiot-ridden farm town into the city to sit in an overflowing waiting room of a public clinic for _hours_ trying not to shit yourself, and then, on top of that, acting normal in front of everyone for another two weeks while you wait for the results." He gazed down at an obviously shocked Quentin. "The day I found out I was negative I started applying to colleges _far away_ from home." He shuddered against the onslaught of a thousand unpleasant memories. "No way in hell was I going to let all that stupid, sad bullshit be the rest of my life."

Quentin held back as much emotion as he could, determined to not let Eliot sense too much pity. He knew the man well enough to know pity wasn't his jam under _any_ circumstance. "That's . . . I'm . . . _fuck,_ I'm so glad you survived!"

"Me too," Eliot nodded. "From then on I was a much more responsible man-whore. But hey!" He shook his head, letting all those terrible memories fall back into the distant past where they belong. "We've gotten off topic. Where were we?"

"Can it be my turn?" Quentin asked.

Rather than reply Eliot stood there, waiting patiently for Q to continue.

"Thanks. So, even if we did _all_ fail to define things here, I . . ." he took a moment to brace his ego for the hit. "Seriously, I shouldn't have flipped out so bad. It was stupid, and fucking uncalled for."

"It was a bit excessive," Eliot mumbled.

Quentin went on. "The thing is, I'm used to relationships and misery going hand in hand, it's what I expect. I've never had a relationship work as well as ours. _"_ He began to sway in Eliot's arms, leaning back to look him in the eye. "I don't really know how to deal with love when it isn't a total dumpster fire, I guess. But I'll work on it, okay? Starting now."

"Okay, thanks," Said Eliot. "Aaaaaand what about me and Ari?"

Quentin shrugged. "Kind of a surprise, but okay."

The stealthy beginnings of a grin snuck onto Eliot's face. "And you and her, and obviously the three of us-"

"We work _really well_ together,yes." Quentin rose up on tip-toe and wrapped his arms around El's neck. "I promise never to forget that again. Ever."

"Good." Eliot felt his last lingering wisp of resentment disappear. "And I promise not to explain things like a know-it-all douchebag."

"Mmmmmmmm," Q mused, feeling warm, and loved, and relieved. "I guess it's good we got this fight out of the way before tomorrow, huh? It would suck to ruin your birthday with a fight."

El smiled and gave him a tiny kiss. "That is a decent upside." A few more light kisses ensued.

"You do realize there's a much better upside, right?" Quentin asked with a smirk.

"Oh, do tell!"

Q chuckled, "Makeup sex, dumbass!"

"Never heard of it." Eliot lifted Quentin off the floor and tossed the man's cooperative legs around his waist as he wobbled them toward the bedroom, happily nuzzling Q's throat along the way.


	6. Ruined

They returned to New York silent and sullen, shuffled to the foot of their bed, and sat, both of them staring straight ahead. The memory spell had done exactly what they asked it to. Boy did it ever. And just as with the happy memories they'd previously asked for, the memory of several other fights besides the first, worst, or longest drifted in on their own.

It wasn't pretty.

Most of their biggest fights took place within the year or two after Ariel died. Those got _ugly._

"We were . . . so _mean,"_ Eliot mumbled.

"I didn't know I _could_ _be_ that mean," Quentin muttered back, shaking his head. "I can't believe I actually called you a parasite . . ."

"Histrionic energy-sucking parasite," Eliot corrected him.

"Fucking Christ, El," Quentin breathed, "I am so sorry!"

Eliot shrugged, "I guess . . . at least we always apologized. Got through it."

Quentin scoffed. "Yeah, lived to fight another day."

"I know I died happy, is my point," El clarified. "Like I said before, people get shitty in fights. And . . . the downside of long term relationships, I suppose, is you end up with a partner who knows all your buttons. How to find the soft underbelly. After so many years together . . . doesn't it . . . sort of stand to reason we'd be fucking _great_ at hurting each other when we wanted to?"

"I don't know," Quentin said with a deep sigh. I do know this, though: that time you didn't speak to me for three days? You were right to freeze me out, I was a total _dick_ to you. _I_ wouldn't have talked to me!" He bowed his head, feeling defeated and tired.

A large, heavy silence settled into the room. It lasted several minutes.

When Eliot finally did speak his voice cracked, brittle in the grip of anxiety. "Does this mean we should . . . we should re-think getting married?"

"WHAT?!" Quentin yelped, immediately spinning on the mattress to face him. "No! Look, okay, we just remembered a whole shitload of arguments back-to-back in one big dose, right? So it feels way worse than it really was."

"Feels worse than it was?" Eliot asked with another weary sigh. "Do you really believe that?"

"Yes!" Q insisted, trying not to let Eliot's gloomy outlook drive him to panic. "Those fights were spread out over decades, El. We spent _most_ of those decades in a good place. And good for each other. And not calling each other parasites."

El gave a half-hearted smile. "Or droopy . . . shit, what was it I called you?"

Quentin likewise managed a tiny grin. "A droopy doomsday fetishist."

"Right." Eliot nodded. "That one was clever, you have to admit."

"It was clever." Quentin scooched himself closer to Eliot until their legs overlapped, and took both his hands in a firm grip. "Calling off the engagement is _absolutely_ not an option as far as I'm concerned. I don't know about you but I have waited a long, long time for something this healthy, and fuck if I'm gonna trash-can it just because we'll _sometimes_ end up being massive dicks to each other!"

"It's just . . ." Eliot rolled his eyes. "I really hate to say this, but Penny was right before. This timeline is more complicated. What if . . . being in a more complicated world-"

"Causes more fights?" Quentin cut him off. "Yeah, it might. But overall we're still fucking worth it."

Despite Q's efforts at reassurance, Eliot's face remained a awash in worry.

 _Tease him. He likes that._ "Who's the doomsday fetishist now, huh?" Quentin asked, poking him in the arm.

"Seriously, Q! Why are you still so hyped and into this shit if it means us spending maybe a lot of time pissy and upset?"

Quentin stroked Eliot's face, scooching even closer. "Because there's no such thing as a couple-a _lasting couple,_ at least _-_ that doesn't fight. And I don't believe for a second it'll happen very often," he calmly explained. Despite his own dour mood when they first stepped through the portal, the depth of Eliot's worry instantly snapped him out of that funk. Now all Q cared about was talking his man off the ledge.

"It might though." Eliot mumbled, staring down at their nested hands and tracing his thumb over Quentin's palm. "It might happen often . . ."

"Yeah El, our marriage _might be_ a lotta things!" Quentin frowned. "For all you know I get early-onset dementia in this timeline, and you end up taking care of a forty or fifty year old man who has no idea who you are!"

That knocked Eliot for a loop. "Jesus, Q! When you go dark, you go _dark!"_

"My point is I'd rather be with you than without, no matter what. Whatever bullshit we suffer, or how often we argue! End of the day? It's _literally_ this simple." He pressed his lips firm against Eliot's, then leaned back with a small smile. "Life is better when you kiss me." He nudged himself the rest of the way into the other man's lap, all the while placing tiny kisses on his face and mouth.

At first El barely responded. But with every fleeting press of lips to his, a little more tension melted away, gloom dissipated, and he began slowly to reciprocate.

It took longer than Quentin would have liked to reach full make-out, but eventually they got there. "See how much better?" He asked as Eliot's arms slipped around him. "See how I'm right?"

"Mmhm."

"So we're done with the calling-it-off insanity?" Quentin asked. Just to confirm, beyond doubt, that the danger had passed.

"Mmhm."

"Okay then," Q whispered, holding onto Eliot's shoulders as he leaned back and gently rocked his hips.

"Sorry for the freak out," Eliot breathed, sweeping his hands over Quentin's chest. "But . . . the thought of us accidentally ruining each other is . . ."

Quentin adjusted his angle for maximum friction and smirked. "But I like it when you ruin me." He nipped at El's lower lip with a quiet laugh. "See what I did there?"

"I-yes I did, nicely done." Eliot chuckled.

Q closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against El's while the man's agile fingers unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it open. Warm hands stroked his frame and wandered over his torso. "You missed a button," he mused, rocking his hips a tad more aggressively to further clarify his meaning.

Eliot pushed Quentin's hair back, lips ghosting against his ear. "Well, you just said you like being ruined . . ." he teased in a low, rumbling tone, sliding Q's shirt off his shoulders and tossing it to the floor. "And I'm nothing if not an ccommodating partner."

Quentin felt a hand curl around the back of his neck and a soft tongue lapping at his throat, trailing delicate kisses along the way.

El snuck his other hand between Q's legs, petting and massaging, pleased to feel the fabric beneath his palm go from loose to _extremely taught_.

"Aaaaaaw, _fuck,"_ Quentin groaned,"this actually hurts!"

"Welcome to being ruined!" Eliot chirped casually as he looped an arm around Quentin's waist, spun him around, and dropped him to the mattress.

"Wha-" Quentin meant to say 'what the hell?' but he didn't have time to finish the sentence before teeth pressed into the flesh just below his clavicle, followed by stinging suction.

While he worked on marking territory, Eliot used his hips to push Quentin's legs apart, grinding and thrusting as he went, focused on everything but his own arousal. Properly ruining Q would mean postponing his own gratification for a good long while, so he knew better then to let himself become fully _alert._

Once he felt Q's thighs start to twitch and spasm at his sides, body _squirming_ beneath him, he propped himself up and gazed down at the disheveled man, still firmly grinding his hips. "You think it hurts _now?"_ He delivered a quick peck to Quentin's mouth. "That's cute."

He started to move off the bed, but stopped when Quentin _immediately_ reached down to unbutton his pants.

 _Did I say you could do that?_ El thought.

"Nope!" Eliot grabbed ahold of Q's wrists and pinned them to the mattress above his head. "Not yet . . . and don't think I'm unwilling to restrain you if necessary," he added as he hefted himself off the mattress.

Quentin honestly couldn't tell if he was having fun, or trapped in hell. Either way he was hard as all fuck. Pulse racing, throat dry, eyes riveted on Eliot.

The other man made quick work of his shoes and socks, undid the cuffs of his sleeves, then . . . stood completely still. Staring at Quentin.

"What are you doing?" Q asked, half dreading the answer.

"Watching you suffer." Eliot grinned. "It's pretty."

Quentin stared back, breath shallow, mentally counting every button as it was undone. _One . . . . . . . two . . . . . . . three . . . . . . four . . . . . . . I hate you so much! . . . . . five . . . . . ._ after what felt like an hour, El's shirt was finally gone. Q braced himself for the deeply cruel man to spend another thousand years getting out of his pants and underwear, but those went away pretty quick (by comparison).

"Seriously?" Quentin whined in almost-protest at the sight of naked Eliot. Naked _half hard_ Eliot. "How are you not-"

"Discipline." Eliot cut him off with a glint of gleeful torture in his eyes, kneeling on the foot of the bed. "And I know what you're thinking," he continued, enunciating each quiet word as he crawled between Quentin's legs "'A disciplined Hedonist? How is that possible?'" He spent some time brushing his mouth just above Q's waistband before starting a slow path up his abdomen. "The simple answer?" _(kiss, nuzzle . . .)_ "is years," _(kiss)_ "and years," _(kiss, wandering tongue, nuzzle, kiss . . .)_ "of _practice."_ His face drew level with Quentin's as he spoke the last words. "I can think about the weather channel and NPR all fucking night if I have to."

Quentin tried to throw a leg around the man and pull him close, but Eliot flung away the disobedient limb in an instant.

"Behave, please. Or do you _want me_ to restrain you?"

"Nooooooooo," Quentin moaned. "I wanna be fucked, like _now!_ That 'ruined' thing I said? I take it back!"

"Aw," Eliot swooped down to give him a quick kiss on the mouth. "Sorry, no refunds."

 _What have I done to myself?_ Quentin wondered as Eliot reared back to crouch between Q's legs, pulling them up by the knees so he could use them as armrests.

"Hmmmmmmm," He drummed his fingers on Quentin's right thigh. "Options, options, options . . ." Breezy tone. Like he was deciding what color sharpie to use on a poster. "Oh what the hell. Go ahead and unzip your pants."

Q did not need to be told twice. Unbuttoned, unzipped, and stroking himself in under a second.

"NO!" El slapped Q's hand. "I said unzip, not play with yourself, pay attention!" He had to bite back an arrogant smirk as the other man returned his hands to the mattress, palms up on either side of his head.

"You are so _mean,"_ Quentin whispered.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, my darling," Eliot said with a wink before taking another long moment to mull over a variety of possible scenarios.

"Do I get a vote?" Quentin took the risk of asking.

"Not yet."

"Of course not," he mumbled.

Finally, Eliot's fingers curled beneath the waistband of both Q's pants and boxers, and yanked down just far enough to leave the man fully exposed.

The _very_ _slight_ relief was enough to send a shiver down Quentin's spine.

El stared directly into Quentin's pleading, lust-blown eyes as he traced thumb and index fingers up and down the other man's length with a feather-light touch. Then wrapped four fingers around rigid shaft while his thumb swept over the head, collecting several generous drops of precum. He stopped, considering the sex-slicked digit for only a moment before bringing it to his mouth, again staring at Q as the thumb slipped between his lips.

"Come _on,"_ Quentin begged, rocking his hips against the open air and _occasional_ stroke of El's fingers. "Comeoncomeoncomeon . . ."

"I never specifically told you not to speak," Eliot mused, sucking more precum off his thumb. "So I'll overlook the whining. Actually, whine all you want," he changed his mind after a beat or two. "It works for me."

From then on a series of needy sounds and a few warbled words issued from Q's mouth while Eliot went on gently stoking.

Maddeningly gentle.

 _Shit, this is fucking KILLING ME!_ Quentin thought, worried he might soon climax off of nothing more than being . . . well . . . kinda _pet (?)._ His pulse sped up as Eliot moved forward and arranged his body parallel over Q. Looming. He tasted himself on El's tongue as it slid into his mouth and traveled deep. Everywhere. Lively and welcome.

"Do you want my mouth on you?" Asked Eliot.

"Yeah!" Q nodded, assuming El's phrase meant going down on him. "Fuck yes!-AH!" he cried out when he found himself suddenly flipped over on his stomach, and Eliot's teeth and lips sealed tight to a patch of flesh at the curve of his throat. _"Fuck!"_ He rasped, clutching the sheets. _How are you still not HARD?!_ He wondered as El's semi erect cock brushed the back of his thigh. _How?!_

Eliot swept Q's hair whichever way necessary in order pay aggressive attention to every inch of his throat, prompting the other man to lift himself off the mattress as needed. He could feel Quentin beneath him bucking harder and harder. "Fair warning," he said, tugging Q's earlobe with his teeth. "Come before I _specifically_ allow it, and I won't fuck you til tomorrow."

"You're bluffing!" Quentin spoke the words before he could stop himself. _Idiot!_ The comment earned him a solid slap on the ass. Hands closed tight around his wrists and he could feel Eliot breathing heavily next to his ear.

"No, Quentin," the other man explained, "come too early, and here's how tonight ends for you: you will watch while I get myself off. You will clean up the mess with your mouth. And you will take care of yourself in the bathroom. I will not. Fuck you. Until morning."

Quentin cringed and pressed his face into the mattress to stifle a strangled, frustrated cry. Earlier on in their encounter he wouldn't have worried so much, assuming that even if he did accidentally come without 'permission' El would cave in a few hours and fuck him anyhow. But now, as he lay there pinned beneath the man, he knew the threat was absolutely real. He was sure of it.

 _Goddamnit! Goddamnit! Goddamnit!_ He thought over and over again, as El's mouth moved down his spine, to his ass, and rimmed him with a careful, well-trained tongue for what felt like hours. At several points the only thing saving him from a fuckless night was imagining himself in line at the DMV, bored off his ass. _The ass getting rimmed right now. Really well. Kinda perfectly. Christ, that feels good-NO!_ He scolded himself. _Math class! Sorting recycling! Penny being a shithead!_

"Well done," said Eliot as he rose up on his knees and pointed to the bedside table. "Now _fetch."_

 _Get lube, obviously._ Quentin did as he was told and settled back into _exactly_ his previous position,not having been told to do otherwise. He listened as Eliot got himself hard, every sigh and whisper making his own cock ache and hips rock of their own accord. He didn't even bother trying to subdue or restrain the motion. _Waste of fucking energy._

Eliot gripped Q's hips and yanked him up without warning, then pressed a firm hand between his shoulder blades, pressing down to maneuver his body into the proper pose. Back arched, ass in the air, forehead on mattress (or in the crook of his arm, Q couldn't seem to decide).

 _Goddamn FINALLY!_

El moved himself into position, lubed cock pressing with _almost_ enough force to fully penetrate, then cleared his throat. "Choose a safeword, Quentin. You have to the count of five, onetwothree-"

 _SHIT! Um-_ Q saw the lamp on the bedside table, so he yelled out "LAMP!" At the last possible second. He barely had time to finish the word before Eliot buried himself to the hilt and went on thrusting like there was a prize waiting for him at the end if he went deep enough.

Fun fact: not all prostates respond equally to stimulation. But luckily for them both, Quentin's was sensitive as all hell, so at no point did he even _consider_ using the safeword. Not even when he had to push against Eliot in a mad scramble to avoid being launched off the edge of the bed.

"Oh, _fuck!"_ He heard Eliot rasp through clenched teeth. "Ah! Q! _Fuck!"_

Eliot let climax finish pulsing through him, and allowed himself a minute to catch his breath before flipping Quentin onto his back. "Come whenever you want, sweetheart," was all he said before swallowing Q's cock, his throat relaxed and ready to absorb what he just assumed would be unrestrained bucking.

It was a good guess.

El settled on the bed a few minutes later, gasping and wiping his mouth. "Are we feeling sufficiently ruined?" He asked.

"Yes," Q mumbled as his eyes fluttered shut. "Suffffffficient. Sleep good. Talking bad."

Eliot grinned and curled up next to Quentin big-spoon style. _At least we know the make-up sex is great in either timeline_ was his last thought before his brain wobbled off to sleep.


	7. Gifts and Magic

Quentin paced the massive stone hallway rehearsing under his breath the words he'd written two months previous. A week ago he was sure he had them firmly memorized, but then woke up that morning feeling paranoid and unsure.

 _Do not fumble this!_ He cautioned himself. _For once in your life, stick the landing._

Their original plan was just to go to city hall with their small circle friends and get it done quick and simple. But when Margo found out they were engaged she offered use of Whitespire with herself as officiant, and who says no to that kind of offer?

After all, King Margo had appointed him and Eliot advisors in the royal court. Not needed on a daily basis, but available at the crown's calling. And as members of the court it would have been odd if they _didn't_ get married in the castle. Which also meant that along with their friends, also in attendance would be the rest of King Margo's court, about a dozen Honored Citizens of Fillory, and a gaggle of foreign diplomats and emissaries. (Though that last group would really only be there to politic and kiss ass.)

It would have annoyed the shit out of Quentin to have so many strangers at his wedding if not for the fact he knew Eliot, in all his theatrical glory, thrived on pomp and circumstance. And to top it off, more guests meant more free stuff. And why not start off their life together with a maximum of freebies?

To round out his list of reasons to accept the throng of strangers as welcome guests, a truly wild-ass reception party would ensue if the Honored Citizens had anything to say about it. Not once had he know Fillorians to half-ass a celebration. Royal affair or peasant gathering, Fillorians partied like Eliot Waugh himself had taught them how.

"Quentin?" A woman's voice interrupted his thoughts.

 _Alice._

"What's up?" He asked, fidgeting with his collar as she approached. "Everything going smoothly?"

"Mmhm," Alice nodded. "Servants are setting up the banquet hall now, kitchen is putting final touches on the feast. There was a minor glitch with table settings, but I sorted it out."

"You're the best," Quentin smiled.

"Thanks." Alice mirrored his warm expression. "I had to be mean. Margo helped with the glaring."

"And how's Eliot?"

"Fussy, bossy, nervous," She shrugged.

Q nodded. "Sounds about right. Anyway, back to what's up? Not to rush you, but I _really_ need to practice this speech. "

"Well, I made something special for you and Eliot as a wedding gift, and I'm pretty sure you won't wanna wait for it. So come find me at the reception right away, okay? The both of you."

Quentin wasn't sure what to make of the request. "Should I be nervous?" He asked.

Alice shook her head. "Just . . . reception, I'll be in the crowd. The second you can break away from all the fawning and hand shaking-"

"We'll come find you," Quentin promised, deciding to trust her. "And whatever it is, thanks in advance."

"You're welcome. A-and I know I've said it before, but again, congratulations." She flashed a quick smile and walked away.

He turned around intending to resume speech-practice, but Margo appeared from around the corner, coming toward him with a purposeful stride.

"Is Eliot-"

She waved off the rest of the question. "He's been ordering servants and courtiers around since breakfast, he's on cloud _fucking_ nine. This is about you, champ."

"What about me?"

"So . . . I probably should've said this sooner," Margo intoned with deep seriousness, stepping close and pinning Quentin down with her 'listen to me or die' stare as she pointed in the general direction of Alice's exit. "I know you'll always carry a little candle for her, for whatever odd fucking reason, and that's fine. Whatevs. But I swear to Christ, if you get sucked down that sewer pipe of a relationship again, and Eliot gets his hear tbroken? I will bite off your dick, chew it up, and spit it in your mouth. Understand?"

"Mmhm," Quentin gulped. "Very clear."

Margo relaxed immediately. "Oh, quit it with the panic eyes, Q! You knew I had to make the don't-hurt-my-bestie threat at some point."

"Uh-huh," Q nodded. "The speech I expected. I guess I just imagined it being less . . . dick-bite-y?"

"So sensitive," Margo elbowed him in the arm with a playful smile. "Anyhow, go time in forty minutes, right? You ready?"

"I keep mixing up the lines in my declaration," Quentin admitted. "Kinda worried I might fuck 'em up, and El will be _so upset_ if I stumble over my speech in front of an audience!"

Margo scoffed and waved away the worry. "Has Eliot _heard_ your declaration speech?"

"N-no."

"Then youre all good, baby." She purred. "If you do fuck up the lines, or whatever, just keep talking like you're crushing it, and what he doesn't know won't keep you from getting laid!"

"Thanks," Quentin said with a thoughtful frown. "That was . . . oddly helpful."

"No problem." The Great King smiled. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some Ceremonial Robes to slip into. They're _very_ fancy." She gave him a little peck on the cheek. "See you in the throne room."

Forty minutes later Quentin stood next to Julia, out of sight behind a thick curtain as Fen walked Eliot down the aisle.

"Is he there yet?" Q whispered.

Julia pulled back the fabric just a sliver. "Almost," she replied. "They'll be at the front of the aisle in three, two . . . one. Okay, aaaaaaaand little hug, little kiss, Fen is sitting. Great! We're up!" She looped her arm through Quentin's. "Can you even believe this? You're getting married in fucking _Fillory!"_ She whispered as they drew closer to the gathered crowd. "A fantasy place we dreamt of as kids."

"I know, it's nuts." Q whispered back.

His best friend giggled. "Seriously, we would've shit glitter over this!"

Quentin nodded agreement, only half paying attention. His focus instead riveted on Eliot, who stood in front of the row of thrones with Margo at his shoulder.

 _Keep it together Coldwater,_ he cautioned himself. _Everyone's watching, and this has to be a memory Eliot will love forever . . ._

Julia dropped him off with a quick hug and a quiet 'I love you,' and took her seat next to Fen and Frey.

 _Ooooooooooh shit, this is it!_

"Thank you everyone, for gathering here today," said Margo in her best King-voice. "To witness this ceremony. These two wrote their own declarations, so I'm pretty much just here to make it all official." With that, a courtier handed her the traditional double-looped white rope. Eliot and Quentin each slipped their right hands through a loop, and clasped them tight together, anchoring one another in place. Q could feel a slight tremor in Eliot's hand.

Margo enclosed their joined hands in hers and smiled at each man. "So who's talking first?"

"I-I'll go," Quentin stammered, figuring it would be best to do his speech first, with all its potential for awkwardness and error, before witnessing what promised to be a flawless recitation from Eliot.

He gazed up at his mate, drew exactly three deep breaths, and began to speak:

"Eliot Waugh. For most of my life it seemed so unlikely to me that I'd ever get here. With anyone. It felt kind of impossible, actually, and I didn't realize at the time that it was because my relationship with Love in general was _so unhealthy."_

He paused to clear his throat before continuing:

"And it took me such a long time to get my head on right. Enough to recognize _us_ for . . . for what we always were, really. It's just my blind dumb luck that you stayed in my life long enough to still be around when I got it all figured out. When I . . . realized what actual, healthy . . . _adult_ love looks like." He took another moment to gather himself. "Because the secondI did figure that out, I knew it looked like us." His voice wobbled on the last sentence.

 _Seriously Coldwater, if you lose it now? Fuck you! RALLY!_

"It looked like you. You have been my strongest partner from day one, and I wish I'd known that _so much_ sooner. But as it is? I plan to make up for whatever time we lost by being . . . absolutely the best husband you could want. If you need a shoulder, or a sounding board, or a battle buddy, I promise to be all those things. And for once in my life I'm sure I won't fail. I-I have no doubt at all, not _at all,_ that I can do it bec-because . . ."

 _So close! SO CLOSE!_

"Because the way you love me? El, it's the greatest motivation I've _ever_ had." He saw his own shaky smile mirrored back at him on his almost-husband's face. "Just the thought of this incredible thing we have is . . . it is my strength . . . and my confidence. It's the . . . it's the ground I stand on. Every. Day." He was tearing up, but by that point it didn't matter. He'd reached the end of his speech. So he turned to Margo and nodded.

She looked to Eliot. "Eliot Waugh? Your declaration, please."

"Okay," he said, casting glassy, water-pooled eyes to the ceiling with a deep breath. "Oooooooooh, I wish I'd gone first," he whispered just loud enough for Q and Margo to hear. "That was perfect, Q." He shifted his weight from foot to foot, hemmed and hawed several times, then began:

"Quentin . . . Cold-Coldwater-" He stopped and clenched his jaw.

"You've got this," Q whispered with a wink. "The show must go on."

El did his best to flash a grin, and continued:

"I knew the day we met that my best possible life was with you. And that any other life would be a step down. Or . . . smaller, I guess. But I was also sure you'd never fall in love with me. Ever. Because how does someone like me get t _hat lucky?_ -and yes, I say that realizing I once had an entire kingdom basically handed to me," he chuckled, as did most of the crowd. "But aside from that one huge anomaly _,_ my luck has always tended to swing in the opposite direction. So," he shrugged, "thinking . . . or even _hoping_ you'd somehow, someday love me back? It felt like a total waste of time. So um, I . . . I uh, I contented myself with being your best friend. And now . . . somehow . . . we really are here . . ."

His eyes wandered around the full circumference of the room, as if seeing it all for the first time.

" _You're_ here. And you're holding my hand, and you chose me, and I'm so sorry this speech is falling to bits, because yours was amazing. Ummmmmmmmm . . . this happened. To me. And every day for the rest of my life . . . Q, I promise, my first priority will be to protect what we have with _everything_ I have."El took a moment to swallow the huge lump in his throat before finishing: "Because you are _every_ wonderful thing I never thought I'd have my life." He turned to Margo and warbled with intense urgency, "okay, pronounce us now before I dissolve!"

King Margo threw up her arms like a kid on a roller coaster and shouted to the packed room: "By the power vested in me, I am proud to announce: Bitches is _MARRIED!"_

Quentin busted out laughing as Eliot moved in to kiss him, feeling deeply grateful for Margo's unique approach to, well, everything.

They'd decided in advance there would be no exchange of rings. In Fillorian tradition an exchange of actual rings was optional, so Q and Eliot decided to save that particular ritual for the courthouse in New York.

As they went on enjoying their first kiss as married men, a courtier stood by waiting to claim the rope still around their wrists, and take it away to be set in a hand-carved frame. As per tradition, the framed matrimonial bind would be formally presented to them upon their return from two weeks of Wedding Tour (the Fillorian equivalent of a honeymoon) and mounted above the front door of their home.

For peasants, the frame was usually made from a fine wood-simple but always beautifully carved and lacquered. Some woodworkers built an entire career around carving matrimonial frames.

For those with the means to afford it the traditional material was Luceat, or _shine_. A stone unique to Fillory that looked like what would happen if the finest jade and the finest opal had a baby. Only the most talented artists could hope to land an apprenticeship with Luceatworkers.

It wasn't uncommon for Fillorian parents of average income to start setting aside money upon their child's _birth_ in the hope of one day gifting them a matrimonial frame of Luceat. Two sets of parents of modest fortune could usually save up enough to afford the one-time extravagance.

Neither Quentin nor Eliot seemed in any hurry to come up for air, so eventually the courtier gave up waiting, toed his way to the outer edges of their personal space, and cleared his throat.

"A- _hem!"_

"Right!" said Eliot sheepishly. "Sorry, here." He slipped out of the rope and handed it over.

"All my best wishes to you, Sirs." The courtier said with a slight bow before making his exit.

They watched the portly man leave, squeezing himself between the wall and a standing, raucous crowd.

"What is it called again?" asked Quentin.

"The rope doesn't have a special name," El explained, leaning close to Q's ear to be heard over their cheering guests. "But the frame and rope together are called The Sacrament. Actually, Luceat is sometimes even called Sacramental Stone."

"Hm." Quentin mused, eager to see their Sacrament. He knew _dozens_ of Luceatworkers from all over Fillory had traveled to Whitespire and presented themselves to King Margo in hope of winning the commision.

"OKAY!" Margo finally shouted over everyone's continued applause and hollering. "RECEPTION TIME! EVERYONE HEAD TO THE GRAND BANQUET HALL, JUST FOLLOW THE SIGNS, AND LET'S FUCKIN' PARTY!"

"Long live the King!" Eliot shouted, holding his and Quentin's joined hands up high as if they'd both won a championship.

Q echoed the sentiment.

He tried to keep track of Alice's board-straight blonde hair through the dense, undulating crowd, but he and Eliot got bombarded right away with well wishers, most of whom he didn't know, and she was swept away in the party-hungry throng. Between shaking hands and accepting congratulations he was half convinced they wouldn't make it to their own damn reception until nightfall.

When they did finally clear the entryway of the massive room, Q tapped Eliot on the arm. "Alice wanted us to come find her the first chance we got. Do you see her anywhere?"

Rather than scan the room, Eliot side-eyed him. "Does she know we're not down for threeways with exes?"

Quentin elbowed him in the ribs. "Fuck off, she just has a special wedding gift for us."

"Uh-huh. Again: does she know. We're not _down._ For threeways with exes?"

"You're impossible."

Eliot heaved a sigh, and both men set out hunting for Alice.

"Hey!" She appeared beside them few minutes later, seemingly out of nowhere. "Both of you follow me."

Eliot whispered in Quentin's ear, "I'll bet you our Sacrament she's gonna lead us to a secret room and take her top off."

"You just assume you're everyone's type, huh?" Q questioned with a sideways glance.

El responded with a carefree 'why not' shrug. "It saves time."

"Good _Christ."_

When they reached a wall opposite the banquet tables piled high with food, she guided them to stand with their backs to the wall, right hands out, palm up.

"It took me a week to build this spell," she said, her hands hovering above each of theirs as she muttered a long string of indecipherable words. Her middle, index, and ring fingers kept moving, way too fast for Quentin to identify any one popper. "There. Okay," she dropped her voice several decibels.

Q and Eliot had to lean in close to hear her.

"When you press your right hands together-don't to it yet!-When you put your hands together, it'll open up a tiny, _really small_ tear in time-fabric."

"What?" Eliot rasped in shock. "How is that not dangerous as all fuck?! And how is it a _wedding present?!"_

"Let me finish!" Alice hissed back. "The spell doesn't rip up time or anything, just . . . picks open a few stitches. Trust me, there's a reason the spell took me a week. It's fully stable, self-contained magic. One time use only, and it'll disappear as soon as you come back."

"Uh . . . back from where?" Quentin asked, praying that his beloved ex's 'special gift' wasn't just another terrible idea.

"When you press your right hands together and lean against the wall, you'll be taken to my gift. And as long as you return within the hour-that part is important-you'll show up in this spot exactly .03 seconds after you left. Less than a blink. No one will know."

"Hooooooow do we come back?" Eliot asked cautiously.

"You'll see when you get there," Alice gave a confident nod. "It's really simple.'

Quentin felt assured, but he could tell Eliot still wasn't convinced. So he asked the question on his husband's behalf. "Simple for _you,_ or simple in general?"

The question won him a withering look.

"Literally a child could figure it out. Maybe even an ape, given the right training."

"Oh, what the hell," El surrendered. "I guess I'm down for a wedding adventure."

"Have fun," Alice smiled and waved as the men pressed their hands together and leaned back.

Q didn't even register his back hitting the wall before their cabin materialized around them. They were next to the dining table, on which was set a small pillow. Nestled on the pillow were two wide metal bands inlaid with one pale blue stone each.

The wedding rings they'd picked out in New York.

"How . . . " Eliot muttered, picking up one of the rings. "Don't we still have like six payments left on these?"

"Yeah." Quentin frowned.

Propped up on the little pillow was a note in Alice's handwriting.

 _Dear Quentin and Eliot,_

 _So I went to your jeweler and paid off the rings in full. No magic involved, I promise. Real money. So that's part one of the gift. Part two is: knowing the both of you, I figured you'd be jonesing for a little alone time after the ceremony, but I also know how many royal and political types are coming to this thing, and no way will they let you escape for even a second. So I built you this loophole._

 _Happy Wedding Day, and I hope you have an awesome life together. Come back the same way you got there, I marked the spot on the wall. See you in .03 seconds._

 _Love,_

 _Alice_

 _PS. Use HoLen's Bell Enchantment to set a timer for less than an hour._

"Awwwwwwww," Eliot put an arm around Quentin's shoulders and squeezed, resting his cheek on the other man's head. "This is the most I've ever liked her!"

"Told you she was a good person," said Q. "And there's our way back." He pointed at the wall to their left. Blue tape spelled out EXIT HERE, with an X, also in tape, under the words.

"Hm," Eliot mused. "You know, I do think a trained ape could figure that out."

HoLen's was a simple enchantment. And one of the first ones they taught at Brakebills, given the importance of time management for any graduate student. They opted to set it for 50 minutes, given the likelihood they'd need some time to compose (read: dress) themselves before heading back to the banquet hall.

After setting the Enchantment in place, Quentin picked up the rings. "Wanna?" He asked Eliot with an upraised brow. "I mean, I know we'll have to take 'em off before we go back, but . . ."

"You don't wanna wait 'til the New York ceremony?" El sounded surprised. "I know it's just a little courthouse gathering. No big deal compared to today, but still."

Quentin shrugged casually. "It's a month away, and in the meantime we _are_ already married-I fucking love saying that, by the way. Come on. Let's just . . . try 'em on. See how they feel." He tried to bite back a we-both-know-I'm-talking-you-into-this grin, but didn't quite pull it off.

"I guess . . . okay fine!" Eliot held out his hand, excited to wear the stupid little band, even if only for a while. Quentin slid the ring onto his finger. "Hey!" He protested when Q then put on his own ring. "I'm supposed to do that!"

"For the actual _ceremony_ , yeah," Quentin chuckled. "Calm down, fussy-man, this is just a try-on."

"You married fussy, deal with it." said Eliot, looking down his nose and running a thumb over the pale blue stone now perched on his finger.

"Well. There they are." Quentin held up his hand, fingers outspread for Eliot to thread through, their ring fingers sliding together with an unfamiliar _clink._ The sound and the feel of El's band against his own sent a fantastic rush of energy down Q's spine.

"Feels nice," Eliot mused quietly, playing and wiggling their threaded fingers all around.

"Yeah." Q echoed the sentiment. Then without warning, he spun himself under Eliot's arm as though they were dancing and pulled the arm tight around his midsection. "Aaaaaand by this time next month our Sacrament will be hanging right up there." He pointed to the space above their front door. "Then I'll feel really, _really_ married." He felt Eliot's head nestle aside of his own. "Super married."

"Mmmmmmm," the other man sighed. "S'gonna be great."

The words were whispered just above Quentin's ear, reminding him of the time limit on their Alice-sponsored sneak-away. He reached back with the hand not holding Eliot's and pulled their bodies closer, tilting his head far to one side.

Eliot picked up the cue, and used his free hand to comb through Q's hair, brushing it out of his way.

"Don't take this the wrong way," said Quentin as they began to shuffle aimlessly around the room, Eliot nuzzling at his throat and ear, "but my favorite part of the ceremony was watching you struggle through your speech." . . . he took a beat to soak up the feel of El's lips trailing delicate paths on his skin. " . . . Seriously, I just assumed _I'd_ be the one to fall apart."

"Well, don't take _this_ the wrong way," Eliot chuckled, "but so did I."

Q didn't need to look back to know Eliot was smiling. He could hear it.

El continued, "you surprise me every day, Coldwater." At that point he let go of Quentin's hand in favor of undoing the man's vest-buttons.

"You too, Other Coldwater." Despite his dwindling interest in conversation Quentin felt compelled to ask an important question one last time: "El, are you _absolutely sure_ about taking my name?"

"My family doesn't deserve to see 'Waugh' carried on," Eliot explained while helping Q shrug of his vest. "It belongs to several generations of utter garbage people, and I am nothing but proud to help it vanish."

"But-"

As a means of shutting down the conversation, Eliot spun his new husband around and got his pants undone in a blink. "We can keep discussing this if you'd like," he rumbled, "or we can focus on fucking until our brains vaporize." He slipped a hand inside Q's pants and gave him a quick kiss on the nose. "Your call."

Q sighed as a warm palm slid over his cock, "I'm sure it's unhealthy, but I _love it_ when you're manipulative. Like . . . a lot . . ." El's expert hand lead him quickly to full arousal.

Their journey to the bedroom was inelegant and wandersome, interrupted at various points by the squirming rush to discard clothes. But eventually they reached their bedside. A plain wooden frame boasting a mattress several grades nicer one typically found in such humble cabins. Another gift from King Margo.

They tumbled to the luxurious mattress at an awkward angle, Q's head missing the wall by less than an inch. For a split second Eliot thought he had, in fact, tossed his poor husband right into the wall.

Q instantly read the look of concern and shook his head. "All good."

There were standing shelves against the wall within easy reach of the bed's low headboard containing books and various knick knacks, including a few decorative cedar boxes. Quentin considered boxes thoughtfully. (Or as thoughtfully as one could in a lust-addled fog.)

 _Alice thought to give us this 'personal time,' so what are the odds that she alsooooooo_ . . . he flipped onto his side, Eliot following parallel behind him, and reached out to open the box. Sure enough there was small bottle of KY inside, along with a tiny scrap of paper.

A brief note, which he read aloud:

" _You only deserve this if you're smart enough to look. -Alice"_

"Helpful yet slightly bitchy." Eliot nodded, dusting soft kisses all over Quentin's shoulders and back as he spoke. "I think I'm starting to understand Alice as a person."

"Yeah," Q rolled onto his back, arranging himself beneath Eliot. "The helpful/bitchy thing is cute once you're used to it." he moaned as Eliot stroked him, gentle and unhurried. "We . . . _aaaaaaahhh,_ nice . . . we seriously owe her a massive thank you gift for this."

"Agreed." said Eliot, quickening his stroke. "But may I suggest a new rule, my sweetheart? No talking about exes while we fuck."

"Good rule," Q breathed as his knees rose up on either side of Eliot.

El ceased stroking and instead clutched Quentin's thigh against his side, kissing, and kissing, and _kissing_ the man like crazy while greedy fingers raked through his hair, down his arms, shoulders . . . anywhere within reach. Q's hips rocked beneath him at an oscillating pace, creating a perfect friction. Slow one minute and aggressive the next in direct mirror to the force of El's mouth against his. An unstructured choreography.

It went on and on until Eliot finally reared back on his knees and prompted Quentin to follow suit. "Here," he said, bringing his body close behind Q's and pressing their left hands to the wall, still thrilled by the slide of metal against metal. He rocked his hips, weeping cock sliding against Q's ass as his free hand roamed the man's back and chest.

"How do you want me?" He rumbled in Quentin's ear. "Do you want my mouth on you first? Because I'm not opposed-"

"No," Quentin cut him off, voice thin and quiet. "This first. Definitely this first." Eliot's warmth left him for the half a second it took to fetch the provided lubricant _(Seriously, HUGE thank-you gift for Alice!)_

El settled in place, poised with enough room between himself and Q to take care of them both. A few minutes of gradual, careful work, all the while winning _delightful_ sounds from his husband.

Several times Quentin craned his neck to allow for more kisses, the contact exciting him every bit as much as the fingers slowly working him open. He flashed back to himself as a skittish teenager, throwing a shit-fit the first time a girl slipped a finger in his ass. Though in his defense, she neither asked nor gave any a warning. Not even a 'relax, I'm gonna try something.' Zilch. Young men _especially_ deserve a warning.

Still, as an adult it boggled his mind that there were legitimately men who did not like, even a little bit, things in their ass. _Is it *all* queer panic?_ He wondered. _Or are their prostates just . . . like . . . dead? Thank gods I'M not that broken!_

El's fingers went away and he waited, forehead resting against the wall, nestled in the crook of his right arm. The first cautious hint of pressure sent a shudder down his spine, as it always did.

"Feel okay?" Eliot asked, gently tugging the ridge of Quentin's ear between his teeth.

"Feels great," Q muttered, pushing away from the wall to kneel fully upright, bringing El deeper inside him.

Eliot gasped, surprised by the move as he tightened his grip around the man's torso.

Q cried out, somewhat unready for the bold move, but not unpleasantly so. He'd found the more he bottomed, the more he enjoyed a bit of challenge. The slow, deep breaths, adjusting to his partner's thrust. That sudden pressure? That brink-of-too-much feeling? . . . It gave him a sort of anchor. A clarity amid the heat and haze.

He let Eliot choose the pace and followed along. A few moment's stillness . . . then rolling hips, slow and synchronized. A few moment's stillness . . . slow roll. Stillness. Roll. Stillness. Roll. Over and over, escalating gradually to full thrust between each interval.

The calm lull between thrusts grew shorter and shorter as Eliot gradually let go of restraint, certain of his partner's willingness to speak up if it stopped being fun. Together they established a rhythm. Athletic, but miles shy of rough.

Eventually El let go of Quentin's torso and grabbed ahold of his hips.

Q adjusted to the loss of support without missing a beat, falling forward and bracing himself against the wall. "Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm," he chanted with each thrust.

The sound and smell of sex filled the space around them, together creating a perfect cloud beyond which lay nothing of concern.

Quentin could feel orgasm coiling tight in his gut, slowly preparing to break free. Needy and impatient, he stroked himself, intent on coaxing forward the moment of full release. He felt a warm hand sweep up his back, to his shoulder, and grip tight.

El shifted his angle just the _slightest bit,_ and it was fucking perfect.

Quentin tumbled over the edge, one hand pressed firmly to the wall, barely holding his body in place against the shake and rattle of full release.

"Right behind you!" Eliot gulped the rapid phrase, panting heavily as he felt Quentin go slack in his arms. "Right behind you." he repeated the assurance several times.

Even from the other side of climax, Q delighted in his husband's every guttural groan, every rasping endearment, as the man barreled toward his own finish.

Though Quentin did realize that hundreds, if not thousands, of married couples had first-time newlywed sex every day, it still felt as though he and Eliot were inventing something unique and special right there, from the soft haven of their bed.

When El collapsed to the mattress, Quentin joined him, wiping his hand and stomach on a blanket before settling next to the man.

Neither of them felt the need to talk, choosing instead to enjoy the tingle of afterglow in silence.

Eliot trailed his fingers up and down Q's back. Q rested his head on Eliot's chest, an arm tossed lazily around his waist.

"Hey Quentin," El whispered after several minutes of relaxed quiet.

"Hm?"

"We just got married."

Quentin giggled and propped himself up to kiss Eliot on the mouth. "Yeah," he said, still giggling. "Yeah we did."

Eliot smiled and pushed Q's disheveled hair away from his face. "This is gonna be so fucking _fun."_

Both men cursed and complained when HoLen's Bell Enchantment finally announced the need to leave.

"Shit that went by fast!"

"Was that fifty minutes? I feel like that wasn't fifty minutes. Maybe we did the spell wrong."

 _No we didn't,_ Q thought in Eliot's general direction. _Time to go. Bummer._

They each pocketed their respective rings, went to the designated exit point, and just like that they were back in the banquet hall where Alice stood, still waving.

"That was _great,_ Alice!" said Quentin, swooping in to hug her.

"Yes!" Eliot agreed as he followed suit. "Thank you!"

"I knew I wouldn't be able to tell you'd gone," Alice muttered. "But it's still weird. .03 seconds."

As they released her from the grateful hug, a sudden thought occurred to Quentin. "I feel like we owe you some of our magic ration," he said. "Folding time _and_ stabilizing the spell must've used a huge chunk of yours!"

"Nope." She chirped. I didn't use any of my own supply. So it's all good."

"What?" El frowned. "How the fuck?"

Alice shrugged. "I convinced the cabin to help me."

"Huh?" Both men responded in overlapping confusion.

"Oh, _what?"_ She asked with another apathetic shrug. "That cabin is loaded up the ass with magic, and it likes you." At that moment her full attention was drawn to someone carrying a tray of fancy little treats, and she went chasing after it. "Glad you liked the gift!" She called over her shoulder with a wave.

The newlyweds wore matching bemused expressions.

"Convinced . . . the cabin . . . to help us," Eliot said slowly. " . . . like it's a totally normal thing to say."

"Yeah I want backstory, too." Quentin agreed. "But I'm also goddamn starving."

The pair made their way toward the banquet tables, profoundly impressed by what must have been days and days of work in the royal kitchens.

As they ate, the men occasionally reached into vest pockets to fiddle with their wedding rings.

 _One month,_ thought Quentin. _One more month and we get to put these on forever._

THE END


	8. Playtime

They spent a solid three months busting their asses to establish a garden, a small orchard, an even smaller barn housing a single mule, a fence around an acre or so of land, and granite stone path leading from the gate to their front door.

Perched just to the left of the gate was a rectangular wooden mailbox painted with the words 'Coldwater Residence' in bright red. It gave Eliot a happy tingle every time he looked at it. He knew the outsized reaction would eventually mellow, but for the time being he chose to enjoy the simple, silly glee.

After so many months of hard work the couple decided, on a day of wonderfully mild weather, to go for a nice hike and picnic in the woods. An hour or so into the hike they found a sun-bathed clearing dotted with tiny flowers, clover, and the barest remnants of fallen trees. The perfect spot for lunch.

"It really is a beautiful day," Eliot sighed, outstretched on their large blanket and munching a cucumber sandwich, suddenly aware that he'd made far too many. _I also packed too much cheese. Why do I always over pack picnics?_

"Yeah, it's kinda perfect." Quentin agreed, tossing a grape in the air and catching it in his mouth. "And so is this meadow. We'll have to remember this spot. Make it our regular get-away place."

As the pair went on chatting and nibbling a woman emerged from the treeline carrying a large wicker basket in the crook of her arm. At first she didn't notice the men, too busy scouring the ground.

"Did you lose something?" Eliot called out.

"Oh!" The woman yelped with a small jump. "Oh, sorry. No." She approached them, still glancing at the ground to either side of her. "Just looking for wild mushrooms and herbs. I am a forager." She put a hand on her chest and gave a proud little bow. "I curate a shop in the village with some friends."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Forager. I'm Eliot Coldwater, this is my husband Quentin."

"Linnie," the woman smiled, shaking their hands. Linnie La'han."

Quentin leaned back and considered the woman's features. Wavy blonde hair cut in a short bob and streaked with pink. Large green eyes, slender upturned nose, and tiny heart-shaped mouth. A floral printed fabric hugged ample breasts, a high waist, and hint of belly. A sensible grey skirt fell just above her knees, one of which bore the faded marks of an old injury.

The three exchanged some light chit chat before Miss La'han continued on her quest.

As she walked away Quentin couldn't help but notice elegant calves, and imagined a shorter skirt would likely show off fantastic legs. Ballerina legs.

"It's okay if you miss it," said Eliot.

"Huh?" Q asked, his focus suddenly redirected. "Miss what?"

"You're too cute." The other man chuckled. "Fucking women. I won't be offended if you miss it." He took a bite of cheese. "Hell, you can go hunting for some hetero sex if you've got the itch."

Quentin raised an eyebrow in his general direction. "You bluffing?"

"Come on," El rolled his eyes. "Obviously if some scheming cunt tried to steal you, I'd swat her away in a big fucking hurry. But you're a big fan of woman-parts, and I don't have them." He flashed his husband a lighthearted smile. "I want you to enjoy the things you like."

 _Wow,_ thought Quentin. _Jealousy is seriously not a factor in our marriage. So awesome._ "Y'sure?" He asked, always one to err on the side of caution. "Like . . . I could get up, go after that girl, and invite her to join this picnic _right now,_ and you'd be fine with it?"

"Absolutely fine." Eliot nodded. "If we were out here celebrating a special occasion _,_ then no, but this is just a regular sunny day off. No big deal. And she was cute. Seemed nice. Besides, if nothing else I packed way too much food. We could use the help finishing it off."

Quentin cast his eyes to the treeline beyond which Linnie had vanished only minutes before, and hopped to his feet. "You better not be bluffing, asshole," he said with a grin.

A few hours later they had a new friend.

Linnie La'han. Age 28. Wild mushroom and herb forager. Owner of three hens and a pig. Auntie to three girls. Funny and wildly adventurous.

 _Up for adventure. A good sign,_ thought Eliot, pleased to see an easy, bantersome rapport develop between her and Quentin. He made what he hoped was an obvious display of how little their chemistry bothered him, hoping she'd be keen enough to pick up the vibe.

Hours and hours and hours went by and they remained on the blanket, trading crazy life stories and laughing.

Eliot was further encouraged to learn that Linnie's life boasted an impressive catalog of crazy stories.

 _Let's test the shallow end of naughty,_ he thought, knowing for damn sure Q wouldn't. He started telling stories about his sexual history, to see if she'd toss out a few of her own or choose instead to redirect the conversation. He would, of course, follow her lead. He knew how to read a room. _Or meadow in the woods. Whatever._

He started with PG material. She matched him. Then PG-13 material. Again, she matched him. Light R rating? Match.

With every one-up, Linnie leaned a little bit closer to Quentin, as if daring Eliot to draw a line.

 _Not a chance, woman,_ El thought. _Okay, time for a hard R story._

"Sooooooo, I'm . . . I think nineteen at this point," he began. "And it's my friend Scott's birthday-well, he was more like a friend of a friend of an ex, but whatever. It was college, anyone you got drunk with was friend, right?"

"If college is the earth equivalent of a Knowledge Academy, then yes." Linne nodded. "That is fully accurate."

Eliot grinned and continued, more fond if this new friend of theirs with every passing minute. "Anyhow, one of the guys, I don't even remember who, dared me to give Birthday Boy a lapdance-are lapdances a thing here?"

"A cockgrind? Yes."

Quentin giggled, delighted to provide an audience for this amusing quasi-contest.

"Cool. So this guy dares me to give Scott a lapdance, which of course, I do." Eliot waved his hand in the air with flourish. "A present for him, attention for me, everybody wins, right? And I'm a little fuzzy on the details here, but somehow the lapdance escalates until we're making out on the couch in front of everyone, and from there it evolved into, um . . . kind of a full-on orgy."

"Hm," Linnie mused, inching still closer to Quentin's lap. "Sounds like some good wholesome fun to me. Was that the _only_ orgy you kickstarted at Knowledge Acad-at college?" She fixed Eliot with a bold stare. "Because if it was then I've got you beat by _five,_ little man!"

"OH!" Quentin whooped. "I like this woman _SO MUCH!"_ He went ahead and angled himself behind Linnie, allowing her to lean on his chest.

"She is a fun one," Eliot grinned as Linnie wiggled onto Q's lap.

"You know," she sighed, slinging an arm around Quentin's neck. "I almost went down a completely different trail today."

"Well, we are _very_ glad you didn't." Said Eliot. He truly meant it. Fuckbuddy potential aside, they'd officially made a new friend.

"Yeah," Quentin echoed. "You're . . . you're entertaining." He stretched his legs out straight, and Linnie curled sideways in his lap.

Eliot laid down on his side behind them, propped up on an elbow, his long body curled around theirs like brackets. _Make a move, Q,_ he thought. _Aaaaaannnnnny time . . . She's sitting in your lap . . . petting you . . . we just swapped freakin' ORGY STORIES . . . it's what's known in most circles as 'a hint' . . ._

Quentin's hand rested at Linnie's waist, moving a little bit. A very, _very_ little bit. Back and forth rather than up or down.

 _Really? You're petting her back and/or belly? She does have tits, my love, and she's done everything but hang a 'grope me' sign over her head!_ Eliot was impatient, yet somehow even more enamored with his clueless goof of a husband. _Awwww,_ he thought, _my poor lamb is frozen. I guess I'll help nudge things along_.

He placed a hand on Linnie's calf and asked casually, "So do you forage here often?"

Linnie shook her head. "Not really. I haven't been out this way in over a month."

"Hmmmmm . . . " Eliot swept his hand from calves to ankles in a repeating circular pattern, sometimes traveling higher to stroke her knees, delicately tracing each detail. "Then we are _especially_ lucky you came this way today." He pushed the hem of Linnie's skirt halfway up her thigh as he spoke. "Aren't we, sweetheart?"

"Mmhm." Quentin nodded, _finally_ daring to brush his mouth over Linnie's throat.

 _Yes! Now move your damn hand someplace fun!_

Linnie breathed a quiet happy sound, arching her back as she stroked Quentin's arm.

El watched with rapt attention as Q's hand slid _yet again_ to the woman's midsection. Only this time he let his fingers tilt upward and travel north, stopping just as middle and forefinger brushed the underside of her breasts. There he paused one final beat before allowing himself to cup the soft rise of flesh.

 _And we're doing this._

It turned out Miss La'han was not only familiar with Valletta's test, but a vastly simpler, updated version. Thumbs on wrists, all phrases recited exactly once, mild tingle at base of brain. Done.

 _Why did no one tell me spells have upgrades?_ Eliot pouted, feeling a tad upstaged.

He got over it quickly, and assigned himself the task of discarding clothes as needed. Starting with Linnie. Her shirt was a sturdy, almost denim-like fabric, fastened shut by a row of five small ties going from armpit to hemline on the left side. He pushed himself up to a crouch and set to work undoing each tiny bow with one hand. The other hand remained beneath Linnie's skirt, dipping between her thighs without reservation.

She responded by letting her head fall back to nuzzle him, at the same time also rearranging herself to straddle Quentin, gently rocking her hips.

By then Q had shed all hint of caution, happily kissing and lapping at her throat.

 _Sweet fucking finally!_ Eliot thought with a warm surge of affection and something like pride as he helped their new playmate shimmie out of her top.

Her undershirt was a simple, gauzy thing listing just to the teasing side of sheer. Quentin undid the single button necessary to lift it over her head, then let Eliot do the actual work of removing it as his full focus went to stroking and fondling the lush flesh beneath.

Risen to his knees behind Linnie, Eliot enjoyed an overhead vantage point, watching with fond interest as Q traced each contour of her breasts with his lips, fingers, tongue . . .

 _. . . Now that is CLEARLY a man who missed tits!_ El smiled, for the thousandth time grateful for his un-jealous nature. (At least when it came to sex.) He stroked Linnie's neck and shoulders as she and Quentin played.

They touched and kissed.

Pet and sighed.

It was all wonderful to see.

He was so caught up in the quietly erotic display that he didn't notice Linne had unbuttoned Q's pants until he saw she was stroking his exposed cock.

 _Let's get rid of your shirt,_ he thought, moving to Quentin's side.

His husband's shirt was a plain brown thing that wrapped around his body and fastened at the waist with three quarter-sized buttons. Quentin gasped as Eliot slid the shirt off his shoulders. Not because the removal of a shirt was so scintillating, but because Linnie had brought the full length of his cock inside her, hips rocking, while guiding his hand to her clit.

El closed his eyes and listened, delighted, to the sound of Q groaning and muttering wordless, pleasured sounds.

"Aren't-aren't you-" he heard Linnie panting, "aren't y-you going to join?"

"Mmmmmmmm," Eliot mused, eyes fluttering open to see her clutching his husband's arms and bucking wildly as Q's deft hand worked between her legs. "Maybe next time." He stroked Quentin's back, placing a few delicate kisses on his shoulders and the curve of his throat. "For today, just consider me a . . ." he searched for the right phrase. "A helpful sidekick."

"Yeah?" Quentin rasped, turning his head just enough to see Eliot from the corner of his eye. "Next time?"

El flashed a broad and frisky grin. "If Miss La'han is amenable. Which I'm guessing . . ." he posed next to the rutting pair, took Quentin's busy hand away from Linnie's clit, and drew each sex-sheened digit into his mouth one by one. "Mmhm," he purred in her ear, nipping the lobe just a bit. "That tastes like a yes to me."

"Uh-huh," Linnie confirmed the guess in a high, pitchy tone, bucking more and more wildly by the second. "Yes! Fuck _yes!"_

Eliot could read sex well enough to know the woman had reached a pivotal point, and it would be rude of him to keep Quentin's hand hostage when it was so clearly needed elsewhere. _It's his first pussy in over a year,_ he thought as he let go of Q's wrist and stretched out casually on the blanket beside them, one arm curled beneath his head. _She should get nothing but the best treatment._

He inhaled the scent of them both, gazing happily at the fuck-drunk state of his partner. The whole picture. The way his legs twitched. The way one hand pressed between Linnie's shoulder blades while the other stroked her clit. The way his chest heaved, and muscles in his neck tightened, as did his jaw.

Lust-blown eyes met his, and Eliot mouthed the words 'I love you.'

'Love you too,' Q breathed in the split second before his head tossed back and mouth flew open, announcing loud climax to an audience of trees.

With his husband spent and collapsed to the ground, Eliot took over. Agile fingers helped Linnie find the apex moment, and further helped her draw out that moment until finally her body settled.

He sat and waited patiently for both of them to recover, cross-legged between their prone bodies. Quentin to his left and Linnie to the right.

It was a quick recovery. Ten minutes, tops.

"I should be getting home," said Linnie as she did up the the ties on her shirt. "It'll be pitch dark soon."

"You're welcome to crash with us for the night," Quentin offered, certain Eliot wouldn't mind.

"That's okay," she waved off the invitation, picking up her basket of herbs and mushrooms.

"You sure?" Eliot pressed. "Just so you know, our mattress is a gift from the King herself. It's fucking _amazing."_

"Then I'll save that treat for next time," she chirped, giving both men a kiss on the cheek. "How do I get to your cabin again?"

"It's easy." Quentin picked up their blanket, shaking out forest debris. "If you're coming from the west just hook a right when you get to the giant boulder everyone likes to carve shit on. We're about ten minutes down that path."

"Okay, great." Linnie waved goodbye as she ambled backward with a huge smile. "I'll send a bunny sometime and we can make plans from there."

Eliot stood behind Quentin, gently massaging his shoulders as they watched her disappear into the treeline. "She is going to be so. Much. _Fun!"_

"Yeah," Quentin yawned. "C'mon." He pulled his husband in the general direction of home. "It's late. I don't want the cabin to worry."

THE END


	9. Second Times

Quentin loaded a few logs into the stove, magic'd up a fire, and set their percolator coffee pot on the smallest range.

"Anybody want eggs?" He called over his shoulder. Linnie and Eliot were still getting dressed.

"I'll take two," Eliot replied as he slipped into his shoes and sat down on the bed to help Linnie lace up her corset.

"Three eggs, a slice of toast, and some ham if you don't mind," said Linnie.

"Someone's hungry," Eliot smiled.

Linnie stood up and smoothed down the weighty poof of her skirts with a deep sigh. _"Someone's_ going to spend the next six hours in a carriage with nothing but a baggie of nuts and crackers for sustenance."

Eliot cast a glance to the giant trunks Linnie had brought with her the previous night, packed to bursting with clothes and various insundry to last her a full two months away from home. "Remind me again?" He indicated her uncharacteristically decadent attire. "Why? Aren't you going to be studying edible sea plants?"

"And harvesting and preparing them, " Linnie nodded, jittering with excitement at the mere thought. "But I'm part of an elite class remember?" She reminded one half of her favorite sex duo. "The town beat out six other villages to win hosting us while we study, and we're being taken directly to the mayor's home for three days of formal dinners and mixers and whatnot."

El shook his head. It sounded like a Brakebills party, but with more expensive clothes, and probably better manners. "Three days just seems like a lot to me."

Linnie pet his face and smiled. "That's because you don't understand how common-people commerce works here. We're guests in their town for a prolonged stay. It's good for local economy to get to know us, attract our business. And as for our instructors? A few days for students to socialize helps us establish team dynamics. It's not all decadent pageantry, there's a purpose." She sat down on the bed to pull on and lace up her fine leather heels, realizing too late that she probably should've done so _before_ putting on the ocean of skirts. "Anyhow, I'll miss you _tons."_

"Aw," Eliot cooed, inspecting himself in the mirror and combing down his tumbleweed hair. "We'll miss you, too."

"I was talking to the mattress." Linne stood up and ruffled his hair playfully. "I really do _love_ that thing!"

A few hours later Eliot and Quentin helped her heave two trunks worth of things onto the back of an ornate stagecoach, and called out a deluge of happy goodluck wishes as they waved goodbye.

"D'you know the best thing about Linnie?" asked Eliot, threading his fingers with Quentin's as they meandered lazily down the granite path. "I love her to death, she loves us, but if you and I suddenly decided to be monogamous?"

Quentin chuckled. "Oh, she'd have new fuckponies picked out by the end of the week!"

"Do you even remember the _look_ she gave you last year when-"

"When I asked if she wanted to move in with us?" Q cut him off, giggling. "Yeah, _vividly._ Never felt so dumb in my life!"

"Awwwww," El moved behind his husband and wrapped his arms around the other man's waist, hugging close and still shuffling down the path. "But it was a _cute_ dumb!"

"Whateeeeeeever you say," Quentin drawled, giving Eliot's arms an affectionate squeeze. "You're right though, that is the best thing about Linnie. She's got her own shit going on." He had no problem at all with the structure of their marriage, but their relationship with dear Linnie allowed them the polyamory to which they were both so well suited without intruding on or overwriting the marriage they'd shared with Ariel.

Not that he was _opposed_ to falling for another woman, but this timeline felt different than the one they'd shared with Ariel. Their trio had been unique, especially in how much _Eliot_ loved her, too. He doubted anything like it would happen again. For the time being, it seemed more likely that their bed would be host to a recurring cast of honored guests on any occasion desire and opportunity converged.

Eliot breathed deep, his skin warm in the cloudless sunlight despite the sharp nip of fall in the air. "I'm gonna sit outside for a while," he mused just above Q's ear. "You should join me."

The cabin had gifted them a small covered porch several months ago, at the height of an incredible summer, and they'd enjoyed it enormously. Eliot even built a small table and three chairs.

"M'kay," Quentin turned around and gave him a quick peck on the mouth. "Let me just rinse off the dishes first, I'll be right out."

"Want help?"

"Nah, I got it," Q waved away the offer. "You made the bed."

Eliot barely had time to settle on the chair before Quentin called out from within the cabin.

"Uh . . . honey? Can you come in here a second?"

 _If it's a broken dish, I didn't do it,_ Eliot thought, but he knew exactly why he'd been summoned the moment he entered the cabin.

The entire space was several square feet larger, and about five feet down from their bedroom door was . . . _another door._

"Huh." Said Eliot. "New door."

Q turned to him, eyebrow raised. "The fuck d'you think that's about?"

El shrugged. "Cabin's putting on a pantry?"

"Why wouldn't it be next to the kitchen, then?"

"I'm just _guessing_ here, Q. It's not like Cabin tells me shit when you're not around."

"Should we name Cabin?" Quentin asked with a wry smile. "I mean, it is basically Magic Alexa."

"I dunno," Eliot shook his head, amused with his silly partner. "Call it fucking _Ralph_ for all I care, I'm gonna open that door."

Not if the door had anything to say about it. Eliot barely got the thing two inches open before it snapped shut.

"Uh . . ." he tried again. Same result. Not willing to epitomize the definition of insanity, he gave up. "I guess we'll find out when we find out."

Quentin took care of the small pile of dishes, decided to make tea, and the couple spent most of their early afternoon lounging on the porch, chatting and watching squirrels squabble over food and territory.

"I think I'll put in a few birdfeeders," Eliot mused idly, his head lolling back in the chair, legs outflung and crossed at the ankle. "And maybe a birdbath, too."

Quentin cast a sidelong glance at his mate, chuckling.

"What? . . . _What?!"_

"It's . . . so you're just fully ready to embrace the doddering-old-man phase of life, huh?"

Eliot shot him a glare. "Screw you with the 'doddering'bullshit!This _old man_ can still fuck upwards of three people at a time!" He took a sip of lukewarm tea and poured himself a warm-up. "And I'm actively hunting for this timeline's 'Hot Blacksmith.' Just so you know." He winked and took another sip of now-perfect tea. Warmed the insides without scorching his tongue.

Quentin rose from his chair and stretched, considering the rest of his day's chores. "Well . . . I guess, make sure this one's better at blowjobs." He leaned over to give Eliot a quick kiss on the forehead. "I'm gonna get off my lazy ass and work. Love you."

"Love you," Eliot waved to Q, not quite ready to abandon his tea. _I just poured a warm-up,_ he thought. _Operation birdfeeder can wait ten minutes._

In the late afternoon he was at the workbench on the far south side of their property, measuring and marking off eight-by-five planks of wood. The task had him fully absorbed, hunched low over his work to make sure the lines weren't crooked.

When he stood up to stretch his back, something unexpected caught his eye. For a second he thought it was an animal, but quickly realized it was a very small, very _dirty_ child foraging in their garden.

His first instinct was to dart over as fast as he could, but realized within a few strides it was the wrong move. _You're a stranger,_ he thought. _Run up all crazy and you'll scare the kid._ So he made a slow, cautious approach.

It was a girl. Clawing in the dirt to pull up small carrots and immediately devouring them. Her dark hair was tangled and matted. All over her arms, and legs, and little dress, what had looked at first like dirt seemed to be mostly . . .

. . . _dried blood?_ Eliot wondered.If it was blood, it wasn't fresh.

The girl was so tiny, he knew she'd have struggled to unlatch their gate.

 _. . . this is bad . . ._

"Hey," he said softly, crouching down when he reached the periphery of the garden. "Hi, sweetheart. Are you okay?" (Not that it was a real question, _clearly_ she wasn't okay, but he didn't want her to feel interrogated.) "Can you tell me how you got here?"

He held out his arms as she stumbled over to him, one hand clutching a half-eaten bushel of carrots. "We was all walking," the girl began in somewhat warble-mouthed toddler-speak. "In the woods um . . . um . . ." she turned in several directions while pushing _horribly_ matted hair from her eyes. "That way," she pointed to the northeast. "Yeah, um . . . from that way we was walking, and the big, the _really big_ tree, it goed like THIS!" She hopped in the air and clapped her hands together hard, a though imitating the jaws of a whale. "On the ground, and my Mommy pushed me a far way, but the tree, um, sorta got me some," she pointed to her arms, which Eliot could see were covered in small scratches.

"Oh no," Eliot mused gently. The girl didn't pull away from him when he curled an arm around her, so he took a step further, and tried combing his fingers through her hair. But between the dirt and blood, it was a lost cause. He settled instead for patting her back. "And where is Mommy?"

"Well, um . . ." the girl teared up. "M-my Daddy is all the way under the-the,"

"The tree?"

"Mmhm," she nodded. "And I hadda dig waaaay into the, into the, all'a'the branches to find Mommy, and I tried to pull her out, but she had all'a this stuff," the girl indicated her blood-covered arms and dress. "All on her, so much lots'n'lots of it, and a big branch come'd all the way through her tummy."

 _Fuck,_ Eliot thought. _Her parents are dead._ He was ready to bet anything that beyond their new door was a room for this little girl.

"When did you go for the walk?" he asked. "How long ago?"

"Um . . . it's been dark once."

"So yesterday?" Eliot pressed as gently as he could. He wanted to assess if there was even the slightest chance in hell Mommy might still be alive.

"Mmhm," the girl nodded.

"Was it close to night when the tree fell?"

The girl shook her head. "No, it was waaaaaaay in the morning."

 _So it's been nearly two days._ Left bleeding as bad as she obviously had been for that long? Completely skewered? There was no chance.

"Well, you are a very tough little girl," he assured her. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Tulla."

"Two-la?"

"Yeah," the girl nodded. "Tulla. Can I eat these?" She held up her fistful of carrots.

"Of course," Eliot said, moving with _extreme_ caution to pick the girl up. She allowed it, slumping on his shoulder and munching the carrot within easiest reach of her mouth. "But how about we go inside and wash them off? And we'll make you a sandwich and a biiiiiiig glass of water," he said as he carried her toward the door. "Does that sound good?" She made a whining noise, and he could feel her little head nodding 'yes' against his shoulder.

 _Oh right, you exist,_ he thought as soon as he entered the cabin and saw Quentin in his reading chair, tucked into a thick book with a blanket over his legs. "I'll explain it later!" He rasped quietly as soon as Q looked up from the book. "Tulla? This is my friend Quentin. Quentin, this is Tulla."

"He-hello Tulla," Q stammered, approaching with only slightly less caution than Eliot had when he first saw her.

"Tulla has had a really, really tough day, so we're going to make her some food."

"A sandwich and water," said Tulla around a mouthful of dirty carrot. Eliot hadn't the heart to take them away, dirty or not, given how starved she must be.

Eliot got her settled in a chair while Quentin made a sandwich. "Oh . . . " a thought dawned on him as he opened the cupboard where they kept the cups. "Honey, when you use cups at home, do they have lids?"

"Yeah," Tulla nodded. "I got a green one wiff a ladybug on it, and a pink one wiff my name."

"Just pick out one of the mugs, fill it halfway, and help her with it." Q muttered just loud enough for him to hear. "Should I cut this in half?" He asked the little girl whose backstory he still didn't know. "Or fours?"

She held up for fingers, not _quite_ as warmed to Quentin as she was to Eliot.

"Okay," Quentin smiled, completely sympathetic to the girl's wariness. Eliot seemed already to know the fucked up details of her arrival, so obviously they'd had a moment to bond. He was just some stranger in a cabin. Eliot leaned close to his ear as he arranged four small pieces of sandwich on a plate.

"I'll help her with the mug, you go get some warm water in the bath basin."

Eliot sat in the chair next to Tulla, and held his hand juuuuuust below the mug, fingers providing light support as she wobbled it to her mouth. "Careful," he cautioned, "don't tip it too far . . ."

From the corner of his eye he saw Q heading for the back door, to the left of which stood a high-fenced tin-roofed rectangle housing their bath basin. But the man stopped suddenly, and walked instead to their new Mystery Door.

This time it opened without complaint. He stepped aside to allow Eliot a clear view of the new room's contents.

A twin-sized bed less than a foot off the floor. A tiny desk with two chairs. A neat arrangement of painted blocks in various shapes and sizes. A wooden train set. And a wicker basket (Eliot assumed assumed containing more toys.)

Quentin nodded slowly, his jaw clenched, eyes tearing up as he gazed at Eliot. "I'll get that bath drawn."

In the meantime, Eliot was impressed at how little help Tulla needed with her big-girl cup, considering it was likely a first time effort.

She was midway through the last square of sandwich when she fell asleep at the table. El had only walked away for a minute or two, but it was enough. She put her head down, and lights out.

"I guess the bath will have to wait," Q whispered, leaning against the counter. "Should we carry her to the bed?"

"Mm," Eliot considered for a beat and decided against it. "Then she'll only have dirty sheets to sleep on tonight."

Quentin shrugged. "She can sleep in our bed, we'll wash her sheets tomorrow."

"We're not co-sleeping, Q, she barely knows us. It'd be creepy."

"I _know that,_ " Quentin rolled his eyes, reminding himself to be patient. "We'd sleep on the floor."

"If we treat her like she's broken, she'll think she's broken," Eliot replied, quiet but firm. "She needs to be in her _own room_ in _her own_ bed." He pet her back with a slow, circular motion as he spoke. "Right away, so it's her normal. When she wakes up, we'll give her a bath, and she can sleep in _her room_ tonight."

"Okay," Quentin acquiesced to the sensible counter-argument. "How about this . . ." he fetched his blanket from the reading chair, folded it several times to form a kind of nap-mat on the floor, and they carefully re-settled Tulla there. She didn't even flutter an eyelid.

The men sat down on the floor a few feet away from her.

"So," Q said quietly, "now is probably a good time to, uh . . ."

Eliot nodded and brought his husband up to speed, though seldom taking his eyes off of Tulla through the entire story.

"Should we try to find . . . I dunno, grandparents, or aunts and uncles?" Q wondered.

"I don't think Cabin would have made the room for her if she had anyone else, but yeah," Eliot replied. "We can try."

Neither man was surprised when the effort failed.

They parented carefully, always making room for her to feel sad or talk about Mommy and Daddy, who she came to refer to as her 'first parents,' a term she chose herself. Q and Eliot thought it appropriate, so they used it as well.

Eliot and Quentin became Daddy and Daddy Q.

A week before Tulla's sixth birthday El, Quentin, and Linnie sat on the porch while Tulla and Linnie's nieces ran around playing make believe, the eldest niece appointing herself Chief Supervisor while the grown ups sipped grown up drinks and socialized.

"Why can't we just let her have a _doooooog?"_ Eliot whined in the general direction of his husband. Linnie sat between them, somewhat obstructing their view of one another. "She's been beggingfor a dog!"

Linnie covered her mouth, shoulders shaking as she tried to stifle laughter.

"What?!"

Q leaned forward to look at his husband around the barrier of Linnie's body. "You give her every goddamn thing she wants, that's what!" He teased with a broad smile.

Eliot scoffed and reached for the pitcher of beer on the table just behind them, pouring himself a second mug. "I don't think that's true," he said sheepishly, a tad worried that it might be bullshit.

It was Linnie's turn to scoff. "You dug that entire pond out back because she wanted, and I quote, 'pretty fish.'"

"Fine," El surrendered. "I can't help it, she's got me wrapped around her little finger!"

"Oh, no, no, _no,"_ said Quentin. "She showed up and you wrapped _yourself_ around her little finger!" He looked at Linnie. "Seriously, this guy was fucking hopelessfrom minute one!"

Linnie turned to face the other man. "So discipline's all up to Quentin, huh?"

"I-hey! Back off, the both of you!" Eliot cried with a toothy, bashful smile. "I set boundaries! I DO! I just . . . tend to say yes a lot when she wants stuff." The end of his sentence trailed into an embarrassed mumble.

Q hefted up from his chair with a loud groan and re-settled in his husband's lap, resting their foreheads together. "Yeeeeaaaaah . . . I just can't wait for the day she wants an elephant."

"Fuck off." Eliot fired back quietly, watching his daughter chase a butterfly near the edge of the property.

"Maybe a giraffe!" Q went on while Linnie dissolved into muffled hysterics. "Or a dolphin, or a T-Rex, I'm sure Alice could magic up a T-Rex for us!"

El gave up the ghost and buried his face in the crook of Quentin's neck, laughing along with the joke that was his inability to refuse their child anything.

"It's okay," Q sighed, combing his fingers through Eliot's unruly hair. "I get it. It's stupid, and thank fucking _gods_ I'm around to tell her no, but I get it."

Eliot knew it was true. That Quentin really did understand, probably better than anybody. They both remembered every detail of that day. When Tulla walked into their lives, all bloodied and dirty.

It was the second time they fell in love.

THE END


	10. Fun and Games

Eliot leaned in the doorway of Tulla's room watching the girl make Very! Important! Decisions!

What to pack for her first sleepaway trip with Linnie's sister's family.

 _Four days away from home,_ he thought. _What if she gets scared? What if she wets the bed? What if she wakes up from nightmares? What if she wants her own bed by the second night?_

Quentin had spent much of the previous night assuring him it would be okay, and he could tell the man was frankly still a little sour about the loss of sleep.

 _I really shouldn't have woken him up. So many times._

Tulla had never been away from them for more than one night, but she'd had several sleepovers at the La'han house without issue. They were more or less extended family. She and the youngest girl were best friends. Tulla hadn't wet the bed in over a year, and Dallie La'han was more than qualified to handle a child's nightmare fuss.

As for missing her own bed? Quentin assured him over, and over, and _over again_ that Dallie could talk and cuddle her through that potential meltdown as well.

"You're the one who was so concerned about not treating her like she's like she's broken," Quentin reminded him sleepily after unwelcome wake-up number three. "We can't treat her like she's made of glass, either. Can we? . . . Eliot?"

"Nooooooo . . ."

"Okay, good. We'll make sure she has everything she needs before she leaves, and she'll be fine."

"I know . . ."

"Right. Now, I love you, but if you wake me up again, I'm gonna go sleep on the couch." He flopped over on his side and pulled the covers up to his chin. "And before I go, I may kick you," was the last thing he muttered before falling asleep.

 _You'll have to make it up to him._ Eliot thought with a sigh as he watched his daughter skip back and forth across the room chanting:

"Beach, beach, beach! I'm going! To! The beach!"

The logic side of his brain knew Quentin was right, but the parent side of his brain was still struggling to let it go.

"Beach, beach, beach! I'm going! To! The beach!"

"Are you going to take Bunny?" He asked, referring to Tulla's best friend in this or any other universe, her stuffed toy Bunny. Named Bunny.

"Yes!" Tulla chirped, snatching her nearly threadbare pal off the bed and dancing it around the room, still singing the beach song.

In its years as Tulla's Best Friend, Bunny had been dragged through mud, the woods, the garden, soaked up spilled milk, apple juice, ice cream, and tears, suffered several nighttime potty accidents, and at least a million strangling hugs.

Both of Bunny's eyes had been sewed back on twice, and its head flopped over the crook of Tulla's arm when she carried it around.

Poor Bunny had suffered a lot for Tulla's love.

Tulla was firm on selecting all her clothes for the trip _by herself,_ and once she was done Eliot and Q helped her tuck them into a shiny purple backpack they bought her on their first trip to New York as a family. They'd shown her all over the city, and when they returned home, all she talked about with her friends was 'the big clothes store,' with a special emphasis on backpacks, purses, and shoes.

 _Go figure._

Tulla went bombing out the door the second she heard the La'han's carriage approaching. El and Quentin followed, barely managing to get in one quick kiss and hug each before their daughter's full attention went to the La'han siblings, the youngest of whom, like her, had never been to the beach. Their excitement was palpable.

The men waved and called out goodbyes and have funs until the stagecoach disappeared around the corner.

When they got back to the cabin, Eliot turned to Q with a soft, conciliatory gaze. "Sorry about last night, I know I was . . . _special."_

"Mmhm," Q nodded. "Yeah, we're not gonna talk about that right now."

"But-"

"Here's the thing, El. While you've been freaking out about our perfectly safe and emotionally stable daughter's _four days_ away from us, I'vebeen thinking about all the things we can do for while our daughter is _away from us."_

"What do you mean?" he asked, still stuck in parent-mode.

"I mean, Eliot, that soundproofing spells may be great _,_ but when you've got a toddler or little girl constantly running around and/or needing things, there are limits to what you can do. Our entire sex life for the last three and a half years has taken place mostly in that room." He pointed to their bedroom. "Everywhere else? Out here, outside, that's all Tulla-space."

Eliot frowned. "Are you saying you're unsatisfied with our sex life?"

"Unsatisfied is an overstatement," said Q. "But four days to ourselves is . . . kinda the perfect chanceto break out of our, um . . . _routine."_

"Hm," Eliot felt the corners of his mouth twitching. "I had not thought of that."

"Yeah, I know." Quentin crossed his arms. " And the Eliot I remember would've thought of it first thing,so we're gonna try to wake up _that guy!"_

The twitch turned into a grin. "Are we?"

"Get a chair and set it in the middle of the room." Quentin pointed to the dining table without uncrossing his arms.

Eliot raised a curious eyebrow, and was answered with a stern look.

 _Bye-bye, dad-brain,_ he thought as he dragged the chair across the room.

"Sit. And close your eyes."

A heated tingle like he hadn't felt _years_ shot down Eliot's spine. _Maybe I have gotten boring(?)_

He heard Quentin approach. Unrushed footfalls. The sound moved behind him, and then he felt a soft fabric covering his eyes. "Okay," Eliot breathed. "This is-"

"Not a talking time." Q cut him off, fastening the blindfold tight. "Hands behind the chair."

Eliot realized as cold metal clamped around his wrists that his husband was right. _What the hell would we say if Tulla walked in on this? If we told her it was a game, she'd just wanna play. Or at least ask a million questions . . ._

He listened to Quentin walk around the chair, stopping somewhere in front of him. Then all he heard was breathing. His own, and Q's. His pulse raced as he tried not to squirm in protest against the frustrating silence.

Finally, Q moved close enough that his legs just _barely_ touched Eliot's knees.

"The thing is, El, my original plan was a lot different. We were going to _destroy_ this entire room. Starting . . . like . . . _the second_ we were alone."

 _Aw fuck, that would have been awesome!_

Fingers trailed lightly up and down his legs, and the floorboards creaked.

 _Is he getting on his knees? Is that what's happening?_

"That _was_ my plan. But then some prick kept me up half the night . . ."

He could tell from the direction of Q's voice that the man was, indeed, kneeling in front of him.

" . . . and now I'm too tired for all the effort."

The words were spoken right next to his ear. He drew a deep sigh, tilting his head as warms lips feathered down his throat, then up again, stopping at his other ear.

"So this is gonna be pretty damn basic, El. And afterwards? I'm going to take a nap."

Lips wandered again, eventually settling against his own. A soft press followed by the teasing scrape of teeth.

Eliot sucked in a sharp breath as a hand slipped between his legs. Blood had been rushing to his groin since the first cuff closed around his wrist, so it didn't take much effort on Q's part to get him hard.

"When I wake up, I want you to have a _full day_ of fun shit planned for us."

"I will!" El declared, voice shallow and uneven. "I Promise-oh _fuck,_ that feels good!" He whispered in reference to the hand cupping and massaging through his pants.

"Thank you," Q responded with total nonchalance. "And just so we're completely clear:by 'fun' I mean stuff we wouldn't do if our kid was here . . ."

Eliot focused all his willpower on holding still as Quentin unfastened his belt. _How many buttons on these pants? . . . Four. Four buttons._ He counted down each as it was undone. Moments later, delicate fingers curled around the base of his cock and began to stroke. Slow and gentle.

"Not that I don't think you can do it, I'm sure you can . . ." Q went on speaking in the same breezy tone. " . . . but you are out of practice, so I'll get things started. In the other timeline, the night I kissed you, but _you_ decided we couldn't fuck. Remember that?"

"Y-yeah," El rasped as the hand around his cock grew more assertive.

Quentin's stroke sped up, grip firming just a bit. "Let's revisit that night and see if maybe you can make some less stupid choices, okay?"

"Less stupid. Got it!"

Eliot moaned softly into a deep and agile kiss. Such familiar contact. Many decades of familiar . . . but somehow, this time, it still made his head swim. He didn't even mind the lingering bitterness of coffee.

He whined when Q's mouth left his suddenly, and he cried out with a jolt when it sealed around his cock, tongue swirling over the tip. It was clear he didn't intend to prolong the experience. He meant for Eliot to _come._ That was the mission,and he employed every skill to make sure it happened.

When it was over Q stood up, put his hand on the back of Eliot's head, and pushed his own fully hard cock through pliant lips. El relaxed his throat immediately, certain that his husband had no intention of being gentle.

 _I know you so well,_ he thought with a rush of pride as Q's actions proved him right. He thrust every inch of himself into Eliot's mouth and paused a beat. Then began rocking his hips, escalating the pace at a steep incline.

Quentin usually showered Eliot with praise during blowjobs, but this time the closest thing he got to a compliment was a 'good,' or 'nice' muttered amid the quiet moans and measured breathing.

He knew his mate. Steady, even breathing this far into a blowjob meant the man intended to _last._

Last as long as possible.

He withdrew several times to let Eliot catch his breath before continuing, but still . . .

 _. . . Fuck, this is WORK!_ With the added challenge of hands cuffed behind his back unable to help? He hadn't put this much effort into sucking dick in a long time.

Finally, Q's breath went ragged. He came not long after, and Eliot fell slack against the chair, panting heavily. Meanwhile, Quentin did up their pants, and untied his husband's blindfold.

"Am I forgiven?" Asked Eliot with a lazy smile.

Quentin returned the warm expression. "Do-over the night I kissed you, sweetheart. Fix it . . ." He moved behind the chair, bending down to nuzzle El's throat and remove the handcuffs. "And if I'm impressed, you're forgiven."

"Done," Eliot purred, arms wrapping around Quentin as he stood up. "I'm not worried at all." He gave his husband a quick kiss on the nose. "Go enjoy your nap."

THE END


	11. And All Is Mended

Eliot spread a blanket in the yard, got their best wine out and decanting, and . . . drew an absolute blank. _Of all the times,_ he thought. _Dammit!_

Obviously a do-over meant they fuck instead of him being all 'blahblah puzzle blahblah mission blaaaaaaah Ihavenoballs, blah' but . . . specifically, how should the scene go?

 _We're on the blanket, Quentin kisses me, and I . . . pounce on him? Confess undying love? Promise him every second of my life? Or just get down to business and stick my hand down his pants? What would I have done, given a little backbone?_

He tried to imagine it. Himself in that moment, making a different choice. How would the night have progressed?

 _Am I passive? Do I take charge?_

 _Touch,_ he realized finally after what felt like hours of gazing at the blanket. He placed himself back in that moment, re-lived every fine detail, and remembered _touch._ That he'd wanted, more than _anything,_ to touch every part of Q. Every inch of skin. To trace each detail of the man's face with his fingers . . .

And in the few seconds before he 'came to his senses' (ie, chickened the fuck out and wasted another eleven months of their lives) he'd imagined taking off the man's clothes one item at a time, pausing to map out, with his hands and mouth, everything there was to touch before removing another item.

Eliot wanted to see Q lain naked, looking up at him with those perfect, soft eyes as he touched him. Arms, chest, legs . . .

And he wanted to watch Q enjoy it _._ To see and feel Q wanting him.

It meant everything.

For a few brilliant, shining seconds, that thought? The possibility? It meant _everything._

 _Aaaaaand then you used the puzzle as an excuse to shut it down._ On the upside, least things worked out in _that_ timeline without the interference of an almost-tragic Monster possession forcing their priorities into order.

Later than night, when he'd crawled into bed all sleepy and wine-buzzed, it wasn't _sex_ his mind lingered on. He thought about how Q's hands had felt on him. Even on just his arms and chest. Even over clothes.

Then he'd forced himself to put it out of his mind, and went to sleep thinking instead about the puzzle. At the time he complimented himself for the strong display of fortitude. Crediting his willpower to pure dedication.

But no. Halting the direction of events that night had nothing to do with dedication, or t he puzzle, or _willpower._ It was all about cowardice. Plain and simple.

 _If I HADN'T changed my train of thought? Let myself ponder the could-have-beens of it all? What would I most want to change?_

Again and again he came back to touch.

To take his time. Carefully map the whole geography of this other person, head to toe. And to let Q do the same with him. After all that, to feel the man actually _come_ would be . . . an ovation after curtain call. A high point, but at the same time . . . not the point.

'The play's the thing' as he was almost certain Shakespeare once said. 'The Play' in this instance being the removal of all barriers and distance between them. And to do so slowly, so every detail had its own moment. Its own . . . _scene._

 _Were we a comedy or a tragedy at that point?_ He wondered as he sat down on the blanket. _Or somewhere in the middle?_

Their second chance only happened due to clumsiness and a split second's worth of perfect timing. When they collided that midsummer night in the cabin, and couldn't let go. Like a moment from some cheesy old romance, or a dream.

 _A Midsummer Night's Dream . . . why do I keep coming back to Shakespeare?_ Eliot wondered idly. It wasn't like he'd ever been a theatre nerd. Too busy with sophisticated stuff like Gossip Girl and Buffy.

He leaned back with one leg slung over an upraised knee and drew a deep, slow breath. The air bore a delicate hint of sweetness, young grasses and blossoming trees. He flopped down onto his back, watching the lazy bounce and sway of his own foot.

"Mmmmmmm," he mused, soaking up the sun, closing his eyes as daydreams whirled and played. His re-imagining of the night Quentin tried, _tried_ so sweetly to start their lives together.

 _When he wakes up . . ._ El thought. _When he wakes up, we'll sit here . . . have our wine . . . and this time when he kisses me . . ._ shadowed, gauzy outlines of himself and Q appeared in his mind. He paid attention to their movements, the easy synchronicity between them. The warmth.

As the silent, half-realized scene played out, moving in and out of focus, a sound seemed to emanate from them . . . or from the space around them. A rhythmic thump and airy _whoosh._

"You've found it!"He heard a man's proud voice, and his eyes snapped open.

His foot still swung in the air, and there, perched on his shoe, was a man no bigger than a finger with translucent pale green wings. Not quite like butterfly wings, nor a dragonfly's either. Something of a hybrid.

"Um . . . I-" _You've gone to sleep,_ was his best guess. Still, this was Fillory, so the man's declaration begged follow-up. "What have I found, now?" Eliot sat up slowly as the tiny man flew toward his face, settling an inch or two from his nose.

"The beating heart of love, dear boy. You have _no idea_ how long I've waited!" The man leaned over and stroked the tip of Eliot's nose as one would an affectionate pet. "It is . . . I can't tell you how many long centuries since first I built that cabin!" The little winged man drifted back a bit, assessing a still-confused Eliot. "He meant it to serve as host and home to truest lovers _only._ He would be so proud of you both!"

"Who . . . is . . . _he?"_

The man flew close again, and Eliot could see a giant smile and brilliant purple eyes, lit bright with pure joy. "Can you not guess? I'll give a hint!" He cleared his throat, obviously _delighted_ to give this little performance. "Ahem . . . if we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended . . ."

"Uuuuuugh," El groaned. "So this is what happens when you fall asleep thinking about sex _and_ Shakespeare-and by the way, why am I thinking about Shakespeare so much all the sudden? I mean, yeah, talented dude. Buuuuuut I'm more of a 'binge shit on Netflix' type guy, so . . ."

"Dear boy. It was his mind planted the seeds that grew the trees that built your cabin!"

"Sh-Shake-I'm-"

The little purple eyed man-creature went on. "The home took root quick enough, but needs truest love, and that alone, to make those roots grow deeper. Deeper, deeper," he drifted back and forth in the air as he spoke. "Deeper . . . all the way down to-"

"The beating heart of love." Eliot finished, wondering if maybe this _wasn't_ a dream. It would certainly explain why their cabin was, as Alice once said, 'loaded up the ass with magic.'

"My friend spent _the_ _last_ of his dream magic to make this place possible. It was his greatest goal. Building a hearth and home for _only_ those whose love bends not with the remover to remove. That looks on Tempests, and is never shaken."

A gentle smile spread across Eliot's face. "I'm . . . so you know, if this was ten years ago I'd assume I'm high right now."

"Who are you talking to?"

He spun around to see Quentin, barefoot and yawning as he approached. When he turned around again, the winged man was gone.

 _But it was real,_ thought Eliot. He was certain.

"Uuuuummmm, let's call that a story for another time, Love." he patted the space next to him, and poured two glasses of wine while Quentin settled himself on the blanket. "You and I have an evening to re-write."


	12. The Beginning In The End

Eliot poured wine into two fine crystal glasses they'd received as wedding presents. The glasses spent most of their time in a 'special occasions only' cupboard.

"I know it was cheap mugs in the other timeline," he said, handing a glass to Quentin. "But one little upgrade won't hurt, right?" . . . He held up his glass. "Happy anniversary Q. To our first, and _last_ year at this thing."

 _. . . And then we toast, and Quentin kisses me . . . then I kiss him . . . he starts to lay down . . . and we're re-writing shit from here on out!_

He let himself be pulled along. Q's arms around him, one leg sliding between his.

In keeping with the night they were recreating (albeit in the middle of the day), Q was wearing a t-shirt and pants from earth.

 _I guess should've traded out my Fillory clothes for earth stuff,_ Eliot thought. _Oh well. Nothing's perfect._ No way was he going to interrupt their scene to correct such a minor detail. Instead he prompted Q to sit up.

"Not gonna reject me again, are you?" Quentin asked, shoulder-bumping him with a playful chuckle.

"Smartass," El grinned, tracing Q's hairline with his fingers. From there the slow touch wandered his face. The silhouette, browline, contours of his jaw, his mouth . . .

El pressed his lips to Q's as middle and index fingers traced the ridges and lobes of his ears.

"Interesting," Quentin whispered, eyelids fluttering. "Not what I expected."

"Is that a good thing or bad?" asked Eliot, gently nudging Q's nose with his own. "I am willing to-"

"No it's good," Q assured him, sighing as El's hands pushed through his hair, then swept down his throat and around the back of his neck. "Really good."

"Okay . . ."

El nested Quentin's hands in his own and Quentin watched, warm and enamored, as his mouth brushed each palm, his wrists, his thumbs. Then hands ran up his arms in tandem, fingertips brushing beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt only the _slightest bit_ before continuing over the fabric.

The way Q gazed at him made Eliot's heart flip over. "Quentin, that night I thought . . . 'I wanna know what he feels like. What _every_ fucking part of him feels like . . .'"

"Yeah?"

"Mmhm." El let his touch drift down to the hem of Q's shirt, fingers tracing clothed details along the way. "And for you to look at me the way you are right now." He pulled the shirt over Q's head and tossed it aside, at the same time maneuvering Quentin into his lap. "I wanted all this so much . . ." he spoke through a growing lump in his throat, eyes closed as he felt the details of Q's back and torso. Chest, clavicle, shoulder blades, spine . . . "Just not enough to get over my _shit_ and do it."

Quentin drew a deep sigh, nearly hypnotized, his body wobbling in Eliot's arms. "S'okay. Now's good . . ." He responded to a series of kisses with gentle enthusiasm as each kiss pressed deeper.

As they kissed, Q undid the first two buttons of Eliot's shirt. "Can I?" He asked.

"Mmhm," his husband nodded.

Unlike Eliot's patient hands, Quentin's racedto be rid of the unwanted item and press himself flush against the other man, arms and legs wrapped around him, clutching like they both might drown otherwise.

Eliot wasn't sure what felt better, the skin-on-skin contact, or how much Q _wanted him._

It was one thing back when they first got together, when they were young and giddy.

But now they had over a decade, a kid, dozens of little squabbles, and a handful of truly bigass Championship Fightsunder their belts. And Q could still somehow make him feel like they'd just barely gotten together.

Like it was all still new.

Eliot suddenly felt as though they'd gone back in time to the exact second Q found enough guts to risk everything and make a damn move. Unconfronted longing had been _so much_ a part of their relationship until that moment. It lived easily, almost comfortably, in the space between them. So even the lack of acknowledgement felt natural.

And then Q spoke that quiet little 'hey, um' (or something), and just _kissed him._ Just did it. _He_ was ready.

 _And this is what it would have been like if I'd jumped in too,_ Eliot thought in regard to this re-creation of theirs. _The way he's clinging to me, the way he's breathing, how he's so fucking worked up when we've barely done anything yet? . . . FUCK, that night could have been amazing! What the shit was I thinking?_

Eliot realized he was falling into a pit of pointless regret, and caught himself just in time.

 _Be here._ He re-focused on the present immediately. _This matters._

"Back," he whispered, nudging Q out of his lap, "scoot back a little."

Quentin leaned back and watched, legs outstretched on either side of Eliot, as the man undid his pants.

The pants and underwear came off in one go. Eliot allowed himself to strike the one-clothing-item-at-a-time rule because he was absolutely fucking certain it was what past-him would've done at this point.

He sat cross legged between Q's feet. "And how are we feeling?" He asked, picking one foot up by the heel and running a hand from ankle to calf, where he stopped to knead and stroke before dancing his fingers over the rise and dip of kneecap.

"Uuuuuuh, pretty great." Quentin replied as Eliot went on massaging and petting every detail of him from foot to knee. "I just . . . seriously, you _really_ would've done this?"

El chuckled, low and soft, as he scooched forward a bit, lifting up Quentin's left leg at the knee to nuzzle and kiss meandering paths down his thigh. "You thought The _Famous_ Hedonist would go straight for your cock, huh? Admit it!"

Q tried to suppress a shy smile. "I mean . . . not like it's an uneducatedguess, right? And I wouldn't have turned you down, either," he quickly added.

"I know," Eliot brushed his fingers up the pad of Q's right foot and over the details of five toes before lifting the foot into his lap, hands and mouth wandering. Knee, thigh, every so often returning to the other leg to kiss and stroke. "But when you kissed me, for the few seconds before I lost my nerve? . . . What I wanted most was just . . . not to miss a single detail." He shrugged. "Simple as that."

Quentin lunged forward and kissed him, hands fisting in his hair as a deep, soft whine came from the back of his throat.

When the kiss broke Eliot leapt to his feet and removed the last of his own clothes, not objecting when Quentin rose to kneel in front of him. "I loved you so much." El could barely to quaver the words as a warm mouth slipped over the head of his cock, and fingers curled around the base of him, stroking slowly . " . . . so much . . ." His eyes closed and head fell back, lolling from side to side as he soundlessly declared himself over and over for several long minutes. " . . . so much . . . so much . . ."

Then, not willing to come yet, he cradled Q's face and pushed gently. A cue to stop. It was also a move his dick in no way approved of, but he wasn't sixteen anymore, so his hard-on could fucking _wait._ "What did you want. Quentin?" he asked. "That night? What did _you_ want . . .?"

Q pondered the question, somewhat struggling to relate to a version of himself that _hadn't_ slept with Eliot a million times.

"I think . . . " he guided Eliot to follow him as he laid down on the blanket. "A lotta things, but . . . definitely this . . ." he put one arm around El's waist and the other around his neck. "I wondered what you'd feel like on top of me." The details of their fucked up threeway with Margo were dim at best but he was almost certain, for some reason, that Eliot hadn't been _on top_ of him at any point during the strange and hazy night. He brought a leg over Eliot's hip as well, so his foot rested between the man's thighs.

El shivered as Quentin pulled him close, rolling his hips and lapping at his throat.

". . . and I wanted to feel you lose your goddamn mind . . . fuck me until we fell asleep right here."

"Right here? Outside?"

"It was a nice night," Quentin shrugged before swallowing Eliot's mouth, rocking his hips with less and less restraint, the escalating motion helped by a slick of precum.

Not being a total idiot, Eliot had thought to sneak into their bedroom quietly and fetch their lubricant while Q napped. They'd been together long enough that El no longer needed to ask the man 'are you ready?' Sound and body language let him know.

Whenever his husband was tired of a few slender fingers and ready for cock,he got this look of . . . impatience, maybe? _. . . No, needy,_ El decided. _And a little worried, like I might decide to take a raincheck at the last minute._

Also, the way his hips moved got kind of herky-jerky. Less coordinated, and more of an involuntary spasm. Eliot knew all the places to press and stroke to get them there. Granted, every maneuver didn't produce the _exact_ same result each time, but ballpark rounding? He had a fairly set list of effective methods.

Within a few minutes Quentin rolled over, legs curled beneath his body, palms down on the blanket as Eliot eased into him, caution quickly giving way to an athletic thrust.

Eventually El pitched forward, one hand landing next to Q's head while the other braced on his hip. "Fuck, I'm so sorry," he gasped, words cascading from him in a messy tumble, "I'm sorry it wasn't like this! I'm so sorry!" He kept panting the apology, pitch and volume oscillating as climax shook through him. "So so-sorry . . ."

Q would have assured him it was okay, that everything had worked out, that it didn't matter, but at that moment he lacked the brain cells necessary to articulate such thoughts.

The couple spent the rest of their day and a good portion of the evening on that blanket, only moving to their bed when Quentin's back started to hurt.

"Romantic enough?" Eliot mumbled as Q fluffed the pillow next to him and laid down.

"Uh-huh. G'night."

What followed in the next four days was exactly what Quentin had imagined in the first place. Loud, mindless, no rules, no worries, wall-to-wall, break-shit-and-don't-care _sex._

On the early morning of the day Tulla was due to return, Q and Eliot slid down the wall and collapsed on the floor of the main room, naked, panting, and gazing around their disheveled living space.

"How many picture frames do we need to replace?" Quentin asked.

"Three," Eliot replied. "And there's a hugegouge on the kitchen floor from the table moving, two of those chairs need wood glue-I don't think that's _entirely_ our fault, thought, they were in sad shape to begin with. A few plates are no more, the hammock is busted, our headboard is _barely_ hanging in there-"

"I'm so proud of us!" Quentin giggled, resting his head in Eliot's lap. "We haven't been so _ambitious_ since-"

"Our Wedding Tour," they finished together.

"Mmmmm," Eliot stroked his husband's hair with a warm smile. "Wedding Tour. What a great two weeks that was."

Quentin looked up at El with a lopsided grin. "Um . . . am I a horrible dad if I wish Tulla's trip was another few days? Just a few?" He added quickly. "Like, maybe three?"

"Terrible." Eliot replied immediatly. "I'm docking you ten Dad Points."

Q made a grumbling noise, taking one of Eliot's hands between is own and resting it on his chest.

"If it makes you feel better I lose points, too," El assured him with a wistful sigh. "At least ten." He played with Q's hands absentmindedly, fingers tapping and squirming. "I miss my baby, but I didn't realizehow little 'just for us' time we've had the last few years."

"She does start school next fall though," Quentin pointed out. "So that should make it easier to set aside Adult Time."

"Yeeeeeaaaaah," Eliot musesd dreamily. "Still. Adult time aside, I don't think I'm ready for her to be school-aged yet. That's too grown up!"

"Too bad, daddy. It's happening." Q poked his husband in the ribs. "Look at it this way: Fillorian kids start school a full _two years_ later than they do on earth, so you've already gotten extra time!"

"I know, but . . . uuuuuuugh," El whined as he pulled Quentin into a sitting spoon-position. "She's gonna lose all her baby teeth, and learn to cook on her own, and discover boys, or girls, or whatever. She's gonna go to dances, and probably rebel somehow-"

"My money's on petty theft," Quentin interrupted. "The way she sneaks cookies all the time?" He nodded. "She's got stealth."

El pondered the theory. "I could see that. I could also see her sneaking out to meet _secret crushes_. Speaking of which, what age should we start talking to her about . . . you know, protection and stuff?"

"Ah! _NO!"_ It was Quentin's turn to be appalled. "Why did you have to ask that? Now I'm horrified!" He said with a huff, pushing tangled, sweat-matted hair from his forehead as he snuggled against Eliot's chest. "I guess as soon as we notice her, like . . . _flirting_ and stuff? Or looking for that kind of attention?"

El went on imagining his daughter's too-fast march toward adulthood. "She'll go away to Knowledge Academy, or get an apprenticeship with a craftsperson somewhere . . . odds are she's gonna get married, and have kids, and . . ." he heaved a deep sigh.

Quentin gave the other man a smirk and several little kisses on the cheek. "You know you're gonna be a _wreck_ when she graduates preparatory academy, right?"

"I know," El agreed with long, a self-deprecating groan. "Such a traumatic fifty years we're having, huh?"

Q nodded. "Very traumatic. But we're probably down to forty or so years by now, sweetheart."

The two stayed cozied together, chatting happily for most of the morning.

When Tulla returned that evening she had at least a thousand exciting beach stories to tell them, and Bunny was once again missing an eye.

 _I really am gonna lose my shit when she moves out,_ Eliot thought as the little girl patterred through her fifth re-telling of a story about how seaweed is really, really squishy.

The years went by and, as it would turn out, both Q and Eliot lived uncommonly long lives. Owing, they assumed, to the Cabin's magic. All three of Tulla's children were adults with families of their own by the time Quentin passed away.

Although his loss did leave Eliot with a deep and daily ache, between their own grand, great, and great-great grandchildren, plus the extended families of the La'hans and Fen providing an outright _giant_ herd of great and great-great grand nieces and nephews, Old Man Eliot's daily life retained more than enough joy to last many more happy years.

He sat on the porch one breezy spring day with a thick shawl around his shoulders, waving as Tulla unlatched the gate. She let in her great grandson and his wife, and followed slowly behind them, waving away the help of her great grandson's arm with an easy smile.

 _Benson and Lilly,_ Eliot thought as they approached. _No wait . ..is Benson Tulla's great grandkid, or is that one of Fen's boys? No. Yes. This one's Brickson. No . . . no, I've got that backwards. Shit there's too many of them to keep track! Do they both have Bensons . . . ?_

"We've got someone to meet you, Dad," said Tulla, referring to the squirming bundle in her great granddaughter in law's arms.

"Hi Pop," Benson(?) smiled. "Here he is!"

"Oooooooh, my goodness," Eliot warbled, leaning forward to get a look at his very first great-great- _great_ grandchild. _So much hair!_

"Would you like to hold him?" Asked Lilly. Eliot was sure about _her_ name. Lilly. No question. Her mother's name was Lilac, and who did that?

"Of course I would," El nodded, beaming as the woman carefully arranged the infant in his arms. He chuckled, squinting up at his white-haired daughter. "Remember when your hair was this dark?"

"Barely," The old woman sighed.

Benson reached down and stroked his new son's generous puff of hair. "We named him Eyliss."

Eliot rocked the boy as much as his feeble arms would allow. "Hi, Eyliss," he cooed. "I'm your great great great granddad. But you can call me the million year old man."

Eyliss gurgled, and the adults surrounding him responded with happy, love-struck sounds of their own.

"He's perfect." Said Eliot with an affectionate smile, allowing the infant to grab ahold of his middle finger and stick it in his slobbery mouth.

"Aw," Lilly beamed at her child. "You must've held a hundred of these little guys by now."

"Oh, at least!" Eliot assured her. "And they're _always_ perfect. Yes you are," he nodded at the fantastic little creature in his arms. "Always, always." Enthralled as he was, he could only hold the baby for a few more minutes before his arms got too tired. "Back to mamma," he sighed. "Thank you both so much for bringing him over, I know it's a long trip from the North Mountains."

Tulla and Benson went into the cabin to make everyone a light lunch while Lilly and Eliot continued to fawn over Eyliss and chat.

The whole clan stayed on the porch and socialized until well after torches had to be lit against the descending dark.

"Okay old man," Tulla said finally, heaving out of her chair, this time accepting Benson's help. "Do you need help getting to bed?"

"Oh, no," Eliot assured her, shaking his head. "I'd like to sit out a while longer. If you could just fetch my cane, I'll be fine."

Goodbyes were exchanged, and Tulla promised to swing by in a few days to check in, and bring groceries from town. Maybe even wrangle a few of the kids to come do some gardening.

Eliot leaned back and breathed in the night air as his family piled into their carriage and drove away. _Amazing . . ._ he thought, basking in the sound of crickets and frogs, and the occasional hoot of an owl . . . _I held my great. Great. GREAT Grandbaby today! How many people get to do that?_ As was his constant instinct, he imagined Quentin there with him. The two of them musing on their extraordinary good luck. _A great great great grandbaby,_ he continued to marvel. And _Eyliss is perfect . . . everything is perfect . . ._

By the time he settled into bed that night he'd made a decision _._ "That's enough, Cabin," he said quietly, pulling the blankets around him. "You can stop keeping me alive now."

It took only moments for the cabin to comply, and as the last breaths left his body, Eliot could swear he tasted peaches.

THE END.


End file.
